Leather and Lace
by Sabam
Summary: A photographer looks into a camera lens and sees these beautiful people, like looking through a window to a world in which she can never belong. Quarantined to an unsatisfying glass box and in love with someone from that inaccessible world.
1. Chapter 1

"_**To different minds, the same world is a hell, and a heaven."**_

_-Joseph Priestley_

**Chapter I: Kaleidoscope**

From the constraint, white box emerged an explosion of intermeshing pastels. The beautifully colored satin was sashayed to the melodious rhythm of background radio melting into the crowded city noises of outside. From the open door of the boutique, a soft breeze was teasing the fabric of the soirée dress and the long, majestic, strawberry blonde mane of the young woman wearing it.

The seamstress, an old, short woman of strong ties to her heritage waddled her way to the youthful lady bathing in the splendor of her seventeen years, and began the task of measuring the necessary adjustments. There were little to be done. The dress was perfect. As was _she_. _She_ with the big, blue eyes that hinted at naïve seduction. _She_ with the slender bodice, generous curves, long legs. Sculpted by Apollo, a tribute to the beautiful Aphrodite – _she _was that masterpiece.

_Something I usually only watch through a camera lens_, Rinoa thought to herself, masking a soft smile. Usually, she only permitted herself these observations safely behind her Pentax K1000. Mentally, she calculated and analyzed, _Aperture at f2.8 … shutter speed – sixty. Wind the film. Focus. Click._ Another picture to fade from her mind as the day slowly crawled by or another picture to remain etched in her memory. She was undecided. Sometimes, these frozen frames of reality twisted themselves into her nightmares.

"It's perfect." The girl twirled in front of the mirror, submerged in the flattery of the staff boutique. _It's perfect. You're perfect. A match made in Heaven. _Rinoa spotted her approving parents sitting on the cream-colored loveseat near the dressing cabins. Middle-aged, sophisticated members of society. The woman was dressed in a lovely branded outfit with her hand in the lap of her Tristan & America-sporting husband.

"It _is_ perfect, princess." The father smiled a bank-manager smile.

Her own father, who had been watching amongst the other racks of textiles, elegantly imposed, "Alexius Silversteed's design, this year's collection. It's a very unique model, has a very nice drape. May I inquire as to the occasion?"

"Her uncle's wedding. She'll be delivering a wonderful speech at the reception hall, hmm, sweetums?" The mother piped up. Her tone hinted to important family lineage. It was as if she were speaking more to her daughter than to James Caraway. "Everyone's very much looking forward to it." Rinoa saw Corealie's eyebrow arch in carefully hidden disdain.

Her cousin, bitterly cynical, smiled – almost painfully – turned on her heel and brushed gracefully from the scene and headed for the stairs. Rinoa followed her lead as the seamstress rattled on about necessary adjustments. As they descended the stairs out of earshot, Corealie turned to Rinoa and mimicked viciously, "Everyone's very much looking forward to it …"

Rinoa shook her head and clicked her tongue, "That's not funny. If envy truly is a deadly sin, I don't understand how come you haven't dropped dead yet." This comment was accompanied by an insuppressible smile that her cousin duly reprimanded.

"If it's not funny, wipe that pearly-white grin from your porcelain face, honey." Corealie's shoes clicked further down the stairs and strode to the welcoming counter, "And I haven't dropped dead yet because clearly, I'm not jealous. _Clearly, _I'm disgusted. Look!" She motioned to the glass picture windows that looked onto the bustling street, "Look at that goddamn beautiful day that I'm not enjoying! Why? Because princesses from all over the city are buying their Alexius Silversteed designs for their uncle's weddings!"

Her voice had crescendoed dangerously over the course of her monologue and Rinoa hissed quickly, "Shush – they might hear you."

Corealie ignored her cousin's imperative warnings and strung back into her rant, "It is _the _perfect day for just lying down on the grass and making out. Am I making out? No, _clearly_, I am not." It was Rinoa's turn to raise an eyebrow, "I am _so_ sick of this family business. I, like, literally … _literally _have no life anymore."

This earned a slight frown from the younger girl. _A life. _A factor she had considered and weighed many times. _A life._ A term belonging to a world of which she had no part of, a term belonging to a fairy tale she read to herself every night accompanied with those 'frozen frames of reality' that she hated and loved. "What _is _a life?" She asked warily, suddenly grave.

"Honey, you need to get out more often." Corealie's hand patted her gently on the shoulder, "Have you even gone further than holding hands with a boy?" A playful tease meant to yield some form of annoyance, of aggressiveness.

"Shut up!" Rinoa yelped, hurt but without the power to resist a smile or mask the embarrassment that colored her face, "You're so mean! _So mean!_" The laughter couldn't be suppressed and she hated herself for it, "Maybe I _have_, but what business is that of yours?" A touch of defiance, finally some backbone, perhaps.

Corealie shook her head, suddenly growing quietly serious, "Sometimes I really worry about you, you know?"

Rinoa rolled her eyes and leaned on the counter, "I really worry about you, _all the time._"

Corealie Caraway examined her baby cousin from the corner of her eye. The soft raven hair falling to her shoulders, the deep cocoa eyes that always seemed to be drifting off a little closer to the sky than to the reality down below. She had always been quite short, not fat, not skinny. Attractive, yes, but the kind of girl you saw in children's picture books, not the ones airbrushed on the glossy magazine pages.

She, herself, had been plagued with 'ordinary'. Impressive had never quite been an attribute of hers but she was confident and blessed with a fearful amount of attitude unlike her cousin who would shy herself away and cocoon herself behind a wall of still frames. To Rinoa, exposure meant pressing on a shutter-release button. To Rinoa, all a darkroom was used for was developing pictures – not exactly teenage mentality. And sometimes, _sometimes_, Corealie was sure that there was a precarious ache for something else stirring.

_Sometimes._ Rinoa didn't even have to hide behind a camera for it to be seen.

THE THICK FILM of opaque smoke suspended itself in the air, sifting slowly along with the few air currents. His poorly lighted basement was crowded with people he knew well or not at all and the lack of oxygen was beginning to numb his mind. Squall propped his feet onto the coffee table and held the cold bottle of beer to his forehead, "Can someone open some goddamn windows?" He called to a ponytail-sporting boy wearing a cowboy hat sitting on a lazy boy with a pretty girl in his lap.

His own auburn hair was chaotic, falling across his ice-cold eyes. He was renowned for his wolfish grins, his appealing indifference and his deep voice that sent tremors down girls' spines. Squall was a big man on campus amongst a clique of teenage boys still emerging from their acne and jack-off years, not because he was older, but simply because he had grown up faster. He was like a brick wall in many ways, impermeable, irresponsive, complacent and physically indestructible – years of soccer had made him so with strong legs, arms and hands. His impassive robustness had an undeniable charm that entitled him to be a prodigious, golden boy.

Taking a drag from his cigarette, his focus darted about the insufferable heat, "Irvine, open a fucking window." Squall barked again, this time wielding a tone of complete command. He was looking for people who were busy making an ass of themselves just so he'd have an excuse to beat the living shit out of them. All the noise was giving him a splitting headache and he was convinced that someone was screwing in his room – which wasn't all that pleasant of a thought.

Irvine had finally let the soft afternoon breeze in. Within the sunrays finally being allowed in, Squall could see the fog of cigarette smoke and dust flirting around. It smelled of Hell down here. _Shit,_ his parents would notice In a vain attempt to encourage the rest of the crowd, he pressed his cigarette butt out into the full ashtray.

The pumped-up bass from the sound system was pounding in his eardrums to the point where he wanted to put his fist through the stereo. Before he had time to encourage himself further, however, Ashley's hands were on him. She installed herself in his lap and smirked, her venom eyes shining roguishly and her light caramel hair falling forwards onto his face just so he could smell her shampoo. _Fuck, if someone sees this – and some asshole is bound to – the entire bloody school knows by Monday._

"What's up, baby?" Squall asked, not really giving much but asking out of courtesy. He brought the bottle to his lips but she gently weaned him off and took a swig of the cold drink herself.

"Mmm … nothing, why are _you_ sitting here all by your lonesome?" She pushed the beer back into his hands and dragged her finger across his chest. Ashley was dying for him to at least look at her instead of vacantly staring at the blinds. She was the embodiment of physical perfection, why was he dismissing her like this? Then again, his detachment was the pièce de resistance to his sex appeal.

She hovered close to his lips, her long eyelashes batting provocatively, _Pay attention. _But he was not listening, "So?"

"So what?" Squall replied thickly, aching to drink his alcohol – if only she'd back away a bit, she was in the way of the beer.

"So why are you here all alone?" She repeated her question in a babying tone that made him want to push her off, "The mighty wolf never rests alone." Ashley enunciated the last words with measured sensuality, lightly scratching the nape of his neck with her crimson nails.

"I'm not resting, Ash, I'm hunting." The wolfish grin.

She smirked, assuming what any girl would, "Hunting for what?" A tone of teasingly alluring enticement nearly made him change his mind about her.

"Fresh meat." But Squall Leonhart did not see any. The same uninteresting faces that he had already torn apart, again and again in his mind. They seemed to be spinning, round and round until he felt his stomach would heave if he was subjected to this any longer. She was leaning in closer and closer, claustrophobia settled in and all he could do was freeze as if waiting for a _click_.

_The steps that I retrace  
__The sad look on your face  
__The timing and structure,  
_"_Did you hear? He fucked her."  
__A day late, a buck short  
__I'm writing the report  
__I'm losing and failing  
__When I move I'm flailing now_

"You see, Stanley's character is beautiful in his brutality. Williams portrays the uniqueness of this beast as passionate animal instinct, the epitome of virile power. A Streetcar Named Desire juxtaposes civility with complete lack thereof. In this way, as the representing party of the latter, Stanley Kowalski is appealing." Mr. Garrison was a man of remarkable height and thinness. His voice was nasal, high-pitched but never droned. He delivered his lectures with almost too much emotion, making his students groan at his vivacious speech. His beady eyes flitted across the room and settled for a target, "Rinoa, are you listening?"

_NO._ Instead she settled for a polite, "Yes, sir."

"Tell me, in your opinion, was Blanche the victim here?" Mr. Garrison poised himself on the corner of his desk and waited, staring at her from over the rim of his reading glasses.

Her book wasn't even opened. _Crap. _"No." The words left her mouth before she even had time to think it through. If people didn't stop staring at her, she would pass out any moment now. Twenty-seven pairs of eyes were digging into her forehead, expecting some sort of brilliant thinking behind her answer. She, of course, possessed none, "Well …" _His eyes. _They were on her, they almost had a distinct physical touch like fingertips on her lips. _His _eyes were on _her_ and now hers were on him as well, "Blanche and Stanley are from two different worlds … when Blanche comes to her sister's house, it's like …" _You're talking too much, you never talk this much, what are you trying to do? Keep his attention for a few minutes longer? _"Throwing a … dove with clipped wings into a wolf's den." _Congratulations on making a fool of yourself AND failing literature 101._

"Go on."

"Oh for the love of God." Rinoa muttered aloud, not quite meaning for everyone to overhear. The class erupted into quiet chuckling and Mr. Garrison gave her a stern glare. _Crap. _"What I'm … trying to say is that Blanche was just on the wrong territory with the wrong people and sure, fine, I guess she was the victim, never mind." _End it now, you sound so stupid._

"Rinoa the philosopher! Well, I'll be damned!" A blonde-haired kid in the back corner of the classroom exclaimed and pounded his fist on the desk, meriting a few laughs from fellow classmates. Her face flushed a palette of reds and she quickly covered it with her hands.

"Zell the pretentious dumbass!" _He _cried out and the class cackled, "Well, _I'll _be damned!" Mimicking the pounding on the desk and then stopped curtly, "Shut up, dude." She almost felt grateful to him.

"Excuse me!" Mr. Garrison interrupted austerely, "I won't tolerate such language. Indeed, Rinoa – Blanche was in a world where her competences were absolutely fruitless and her downfall was inevitable. However, one must understand the principles that Blanche's character had begun to decay very much earlier on and …" The bell rang and an upsurge of shuffling and slamming books drowned out any attempts to assign homework by the teacher.

Before disappearing into the doorway, cobalt met copper and Squall could swear he had just caught himself thinking she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

* * *

**Author's Babbles: **So I needed to get rid of the fluff. And when I exorcised it from Devil's Playground, it became so immense that it took physical form. You've just read it. And now I've gone and done it again – I've started a new story. I'm so sorry. Though I can promise no plots, no character depth and no point to reading it at all I CAN promise you that I will promise you nothing at all. 

Read it at your own risk.

Song lyrics featured in this chapter: "Damn it" by Blink-182


	2. Chapter 2

"_**The cord breaketh at last by the weakest pull."**_

_-Francis Bacon, On Seditions, quoted as a Spanish proverb_

----------------------------

**Chapter II: Never Flinch**

She was a second skin that he wanted to shed so badly. If she even dared sit on his lap again, he would immediately get off this bench. _And then what would you do, Squall?_

She was a second skin that she wanted to peel off of him so badly. Until his bare body was the only thing that was left. _And then what would you do, Rinoa?_

Ashley was slipping her hand up his shirt, into his hands, onto his shoulder blades – they were everywhere but kept to herself. Gym class was not an appropriate time for public display of affection. In fact, 'never' was the appropriate time for affection, in Squall's theory, especially if there was no affection involved in the relationship. "Ashley, quit it." He whispered harshly, grabbing her wrists and pushing them towards her.

_Her _eyes were on him. _Her _eyebrow was raised. _Her _lips were pressed together. _She _was appealing. His urge was carnal, physical, perhaps, but there was something more. A naïve shyness about _her_, unlike Ashley's feigned innocence, that sparked a brutal desire within his gut. Squall shut his eyes, trying to imagine _her _sweating, _her _screaming, _her, _only _her._ But when he opened his eyes, Ashley was still standing flirtatiously in front of him and he no longer had _her _attention.

_Him. _Behind a Carl Zeiss lens, perfect and clear. _His_ detachment betrayed nothing. _His _indifference was awe-inspiring. _His _aloofness was beautiful. Her urge was psychological, artistic, perhaps, but there was something more. A genuine sexiness about _him_, unlike any other boy's innate body, that sparked a brutal desire within her gut. Unlike _him_, however, she wasn't imagining anything. And so she was not disappointed in the end result.

Literature and gym were the only times where she was physically in the same perimeter as Squall Leonhart. Gym was also the only time when Corealie was in her class, "So, like, _clearly_, she was _so_ up to third base with Eric before breaking up and like, consequently, that bastard owes me freaking ice-cream. Are you_ listening_ to me?" She snapped, almost in hysterics.

"Yes. You mentioned third base and ice-cream." Rinoa replied absently, twirling the handle of her tennis racket dreamily in the palms of her hands.

"Everyone loves tennis." The gym teacher, Mr. Spencer, _always _began class with that catch-phrase. _Everyone always loves everything that has to do with sports._ Which was a blatant lie since, last time she checked, Rinoa did not enjoy being pummeled with soccer balls while trying to goal-keep a net that was a thousand times her size. But she _did_ enjoy tennis. "Do any of you know how to play tennis?"

"Oooh, oooh, pick _her!_" Corealie cried out pointing furiously at her cousin, possibly as a means of vengeance for ignoring her. Rinoa was too intent on being critical over the state of her racket to notice, _Someone has committed MURDER with this thing, just LOOK at it!_

"Rinoa Heartilly?" Mr. Spencer demanded, bouncing a yellow tennis ball on the cold gymnasium floor, "Would you like to be a demonstrator?"

_NO._ Why couldn't teachers let her be the wilted wallflower? "Not particularly." And could she say _anything _without blushing furiously as if there were something to be embarrassed about?

"Pardon?" He hadn't heard her. Typical.

"I said, 'Not particularly.'" She repeated, articulating and speaking in a tone that would still be considered murmuring amongst her peers. Nevertheless, he seemed to catch the message but ignored it entirely as he pointed to one side of the net. Rinoa muttered contemptuously as she reluctantly placed herself on the service line, "I hate you, Corealie."

"Now, now, Rinoa – let's not go say anything we can't take back!" Her cousin countered joyfully, having developed a careful ear for these things, speaking loud enough for the entire class to hear and speculate on what that curious little Heartilly kid could have possibly uttered. Rinoa blushed again and this time, hid it with her free hand.

"And her opponent will be …" His eyes fell upon a canoodling couple on the bench, "Squall Leonhart, _just _to make it interesting." The class giggled helplessly and watched in anticipation. The mute versus the hero. David versus Goliath. The mighty titan dragged his feet to the court, faking certain boredom while the tiny maiden watched fearfully. _Crap._

"Heartilly's serve." The gym teacher threw the tennis ball in her general direction and it would have hit her in the head, had she been a little less aware (which was difficult, in Rinoa's case). Her heart was pounding, her hands were shaking, she could have vomited and been exempted from the class but part of her was enjoying this. _Impress him._

She extended her left arm, throwing the ball in the air and hurling her entire muscle mass into the tennis racket that collided with the bouncy dot of yellow, sending it flying onto the other side. It slammed into the service court and time froze for a split second, a slight pause for the _click_ in her head.

_Her _legs were hot. _Her _eyes were gorgeous. _Her _grace was unmatchable. And _that_ tennis ball had just lunged inches from his face and he had _not _been looking. His mind had been elsewhere. Very far from the school: a couple of streets away, down in his basement, into his room and onto his bed.

"HOLY SHIT, DID SQUALL JUST FLINCH?" _Shut up, Zell. Shut the fuck up._ "HOLY SHIT! HAH! WHAT'S THE MATTER, SQUALLY-BOY, DID YOU JUST CREAM YOUR JEANS?" _Shut up, Zell. Shut the fuck up._

Ashley was most likely giving Zell a shocked and appalled look but in the back of her mind she was probably wondering what _had _gone on in his pants in that split second that had been void of reaction from his part. He didn't care. He didn't care about Ashley. He could make _her _sweat right now. He could make _her _scream if he wanted to. And he wanted to.

"Right, that was good, now maybe if Leonhart could wake up from his nap, that would be wonderful. Serve again, Heartilly." Spencer clapped his hands together and threw a ball back onto Rinoa's court. Zell was laughing like a horse in the background while the rest of the class had an edgy chuckle. Corealie, in exception, was watching with immense pleasure.

The same powerful serve came, this time slower – or so he perceived, gracing him with an unmatchable prowess to beat the ball back into her court. _Run, sweetie, run. _And she did, drop shooting it back to him. _You goddamn whore. _He thought as he sprinted to the net, his running shoes squealing to a stop as he thrust the ball back to her.

_Why do you wear yourself out? _She thought almost forlornly but nothing could compare to hitting that ball with the force that she did. _Smash._ As it struck deep into the court and then out of bounds.

_SHIT. PISS. FUCK. _He glared at the boundaries and suppressed the urge to throw his racket at Zell who was hooting in the mangled crowd of onlookers. As he glanced back at _her, she _looked invigorated, tireless. Invincible.

"You're pretty hot on the tennis court." He would say to her afterwards, a comment that would make Zell burst out into hysterical, hyena-like laughter at the potential double-meaning.

She would reply shyly, "It doesn't require me to think." And then would add hesitantly, embarrassedly, "Unlike literature." A joke. He would decide he rather the joke to the flirtatious batting of the eyelashes and the cute remark about him being pretty 'hot' too. Then there would be a sliver of longing sadness in her eyes that he would dismiss.

And he would go home to imagine she was there with him.

_Here comes the rain again  
__Falling from the stars  
__Drenched in my pain again  
__Becoming who we are_

-------------------------

Echoes. All that was ever to be heard in this dwelling. It was no longer a home. A house. A simple structure on a suburban street. Something to exist in, momentarily. Something to eat in, drink in, smoke in, screw in, complete with paved driveway, sparse backyard, two floors and a basement all to himself. The maid hadn't come today – the dishes were still in a disarrayed heap on the counter. Marvelous.

The expected note on the fridge read,

_Raine – Dollet, Meridith Hotel – 826-5472_

_Laguna – Balamb, Haydan Suites – 735-2749_

Never called them 'mother' or 'father' like the other children. They were not his parents. Simply DNA donors that brought him into existence. Sabrina, perhaps, had more of an emotional attachment to Raine and Laguna. Or maybe she was able to fake it, despite her young age.

His "parental units" were gliding between constant wind currents; east, west, north, south. Perpetually. A promotion called from Centra, an affair beckoned from Timber, the air hostesses knew them by name and select hotels knew their drink preferences so they could stalk the mini-bar accordingly.

The scribble memo pinned to the fridge with a "B" alphabet magnet was in Raine's hand. Raine was also heading to a hotel. Which meant it was Laguna's turn with his lady-friend this week. Squall had even been blessed with the wondrous honor of having met her – through an unfortunate series of circumstances.

The expected, chronic note. Though something was different. Scrawled in a foreign chicken scratch, as if his mother had actually doubted herself in requesting _this_,

_Please look after Sabrina, pick her up from daycare at 4 p.m._

"Can't you just drop her off at your aunt's?" Ashley whined softly, twirling her hair in the front passenger seat, "This totally interferes with the plans you had made yourself with our friends." It was just a general rule she had come up with, _My friends are your friends because your friends are mine and whatever belongs to you belongs to me too. _Right. Sure. Whatever.

"My aunt can't take her this weekend, Ashley." He could have added more but too many of his spoken word had gone to waste already. And besides, Squall was a man of very little words and very many glares – he should do everything to properly merit this highly acclaimed reputation.

"But baby, we can think of something, hmm?" What she meant by 'we' was 'you'. Ashley seldom thought of anything unless it related to beauty esthetics or fabric that cost a great deal of money and its accompanied accessories. "Like call someone without a social life … pay them?"

The idea was not deemed worthy of a reply. Squall pulled into his old school yard, archaic ruling field where you held the staff of "King of the Hill" instead of "How many girls have you laid?". So much simpler. And perhaps, or did his memory fail him, so much more fun. Boredom didn't seem to surround him then. Nothing was questioned, there was no 'something more' – was it his ignorance? Or was it him?

What had he gained since then? Or what had he lost?

THE CONVINIENCE OR inconvenience of her family was that they were all around her. Corealie lived next door and her grand-parents were across the street – you could not sneak out anywhere without being spotted by their keen, watchful eyes. Corealie had attempted to escape the madness many times, in vain, "I'm like, totally the only kid who has a curfew at like … ten thirty!"

"Your curfew is not _like_ at ten thirty, it _is _at ten thirty." Rinoa replied in her usual absent-mindedness while loading another 24-pose film in her camera.

"Rinoa? Can I ask you something?" Corealie snapped back, empowered by an overbearing attitude. Without pausing for a verbal response, she made her request, "Shut up." The young adolescent extended her arm and examined her nails, "I don't know why but I just can't stop chewing them, it's like, really aggravating."

"I'm sure it's not just _like_ really aggravating, it probably _is _aggravating." Rinoa smiled mischievously.

Corealie's eyes turned to slits but she soon cast the entire ordeal aside. She grabbed Rinoa's right hand off of the camera and observed the fingers intently, "How do you manage? They're like, just the perfect length …"

"They're not just _like _the perfect length, they-"

"Rinoa, use that line one more like and I'll slug you." Corealie interrupted menacingly.

"Listen Corealie, you won't slug me … you'll, _like_, slug me." A rather hostile foot was pushed at impressive velocity towards her and the impact sent Rinoa's timid body flying off the side of the bed, "Ow!" She half-laughed, half-cried as the landing came a little too soon, a little too rough.

They had been sitting on Rinoa's bed, enveloped in conversation or lack there of. Corealie had wanted to talk about gossip and Rinoa, like every Friday night, loved to ramble on about silence – she was usually this way anyway. Her room was modestly decorated, a replica of Mapplethorpe's many cala lilies was framed on her wall and a computer sitting idly on the desk still hadn't switched to screensaver mode. A photo-editing software was still open with Rinoa's latest 'masterpiece' – a willow billowing in the wind, the lakeside clear in the background. She was superimposing a faded version of Corealie's angled profile on it, "Just to make it look cool."

Papers were all over the floor, "Taking an interest to literature now?" Corealie picked up The Importance of Being Earnest off her messy, parquet floor, "Oscar Wilde? Shouldn't you be starting with something a little more at your level? Like … The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett – like we read in grade six, remember?"

"Shut up, Corealie." Rinoa snapped, snatching the play from her cousin's hand, "I'm just trying to pass a course and for your information, infantry reads are not permitted – it's all about plays this semester; Ibsen, Shakespear and yes, as you have already stated, Mr. Wilde. And as a side note, just having this crap graze my floor makes me want to die, ok?"

"Awesome! You're, like, being responsive now! I suppose this would be a good time to mention how absolutely gorgeous Squall Leonhart is, eh?" The flush that consumed Rinoa's face was expected, but priceless all the same, "So, tell me what you were thinking about when you were facing him off in gym?"

"Corealie, stop." Rinoa warned, almost painfully.

"If he asked you out to a movie, would you go?" Corealie smirked maliciously, crossing her arms and leaning back onto the bed's headboard.

"No, I would not." The firmness of her words seemed to take her cousin by surprise.

"And why the hell not? It's Squall Leonhart – he's like … sexier than … Brad Pitt. In Fight Club. Almost nothing beats that. Except Squall Leonhart. _Why _would you deny that opportunity to get into his pants? Clearly, it's not like you don't like him."

The admission came with more gravity than anticipated. Rinoa's response had a soft sorrowful acceptance to it that unmasked Corealie's absolute disbelief, "We just don't belong on the same planet."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I merely use Final Fantasy VIII characters in my stories so I can post them on and get more reviews, does that make me a bad person?

Song lyrics featured in this chapter: "Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day.


	3. Chapter 3

"_**I do desire we may be better strangers."**_

_-William Shakespeare_

_-----------------------------------------_

**Chapter III: Assuasive Panic**

Fidgeting. Fumbling. Awkwardness. Grasping for a nonexistent conversation. She used to do that. Not anymore. She believes she's officially given up on any type of relationship with him – even friendship. She feels conceited, stuck-up for thinking this way – _What? You think you deserve better or something? _In truth, she doesn't. She doesn't _think_, she merely _feels._

But she is a coward. So she sits in dead, stagnate air, leading him on – letting his arm drape across her shoulder as they don't watch television. For the television _is _on, just neither of them are watching it, it is merely a ploy. Matthew is clearly concentrating on a more physical leisure pursuit. Rinoa, on the other hand is thinking of possible script lines she can use.

_"You and me, baby, it's just not working out." As she takes a drag of a cigarette, puckering her lips like an Italian prostitute._

_Or she could hold his hands in hers, apologetically, "Sweetheart, I've been thinking about you and I … I think we should …"_

"Think your parents are asleep?" He asks her mischievously, kissing her ear. He has pulled her from her world, from her camera lens. This is a bad move.

"I don't know – why don't you go check?" Something is different lately – she's snappier, cynical … Corealie is absorbing her into a dark world of attitude where shyness doesn't have its place. This is a dangerous thing. It is hazardous to think these things, much more so to say them aloud. She liked herself better as she was before.

He stares at her with his calculating brown eyes. She finds herself resenting these eyes, always portraying such a caring, concerned, analyzing look that drives her insane. Yet any girl yearns for such attention from a boy – why does she find herself craving ruthlessness? Sweet, desirable masochism. There is something deranged about her. "Are you ok?"

What kind of stupid question is that? Her patience is tried. _Why am I so bitchy? _This time, she manages a kinder response, "Yeah, sorry, I'm fine." Blurted, perhaps, but at least it wasn't the first thing that came to mind – that would've sent those poor little brown eyes into incandescent tears.

His short jet black hair gelled up at ninety degree angles, his clean-shaven face, his lanky figure, the extra skin around his waist – everything about him isn't good enough anymore. Yet she knows it should be, it should be more than she could ever desire. So why isn't it? Is it that Matthew is simply not exciting enough? Not dirty enough? Is it that every move he makes is soft, calm, premeditated? His kiss too plain? His hands not wandering enough? _What the hell is it? _He doesn't belong in front of a camera lens. He is not worthy of art. _I'm horrible._

His lips reach for hers, they find them pursed and cold. He doesn't notice. She makes him. "Matt, don't." Reasoning behind the chill in her demand? Excuses? Explanations? "I just don't feel like it."

"You sure you're ok?" The basement seems arctic, suddenly, why hadn't he noticed? He should have. He should have gotten a blanket in which they could both lay in, perhaps things would have been different then. His lack of understanding, his naivety clings to worthless assumptions. He knows nothing and known nothing about his knowing nothing.

"I have to work tomorrow." Rinoa replies, exhausted and rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Want me to leave?" Oddly enough, she does not. Perhaps it is in the pitiful way that he asked. Perhaps it is that she fears being left alone. What if he does leave? What then? He may be the last to ever come along. He may be her only hope.

"No." Rinoa whispers softly, almost disgusted with herself.

Matt attempts to kiss her again in such a piteous kicked-puppy fashion that she lets him. She can almost make herself believe that this will do. This can work. _Sweetheart, I've been thinking about you and I … I think we should … take it to the next level. _So she does. Her parents _must _be asleep anyway.

HE SELDOM CLIMBS these stairs. He doesn't particularly like to. Only because the kid asked him. He's being a good brother. For the first time in ever. In fact, he thinks this is the first time he's spent so much time with his sister. It is inexplicable, but at the moment she is more interesting than Ashley ever was.

Her room is cluttered with plastic dolls with painted faces – the reality of his world. Puppet animals hang by their strings from the shelves, the blinds are shut and the only light is artificial. Glowing, plastic stars are stuck to the ceiling, to the limitations. His sister's playtime is his lifetime. There is something sickening about this truth. Something twisted. But he does not notice.

Sabrina sighs and jumps on the bed, looking up to Squall. He is leaning in the doorway, as if fearing what may happen if he were to come in. "I don't like your girlfriend much." She announces in a matter-a-fact way, "I think you should get a new one."

"I'll look into it." His answer is meant to be sarcastic but turns into dead seriousness, "First thing tomorrow morning." _After I finish banging her, I'll get RIGHT on it, promise … unless she outdoes herself._

"Someone nicer." She enunciates this, almost as if doubting his comprehension of her demands, "Someone who will pay attention to me. Hannah, at school, has an older brother too and she says his girlfriend plays with her and takes her out to movies." Sabrina reaches for her stuffed dog toy and pets his head gently, "When is mommy or daddy going to be back?"

Mommy _or_ daddy. She no longer expects both of them at the same time. She is past that naïve stage of her life, and has moved on to the next. Nuclear families only exist for the other kids. Sabrina Loire-Leonhart is not an 'other kid'. She's the ordinary kind. She's the real kind.

"I don't know." He shuts off her light. A bloody scream of murder and chaos consumes the house. The picture frames rattle on the walls, every glass and window cracks – he swears his eardrums are about to explode. Immediately, he flicks the light back on.

"What the fuck is your problem, Sabrina?" Squall yells harshly, his face red.

The tiny girl sits breathless, clutching the stuffed animal as if it were her sanity, "Don't turn off the light!" She retorts harshly, reprimanding, "Don't ever turn off the light! You're supposed to turn on the nightlight first." Sabrina points, huffing, at a tiny light bulb plugged into an electrical socket near her dollhouse.

"Well, Jesus, you could've done that yourself." He stomps into the room, overcome with a feeling of uneasiness. He bends over, switching the bulb on, pounding out of the room and turning off the main light once more, "Good night."

"You're nothing but a poopie head!"

He rolls his eyes.

"What was that scream?" Ashley whispers from the couch when he gets back to the downstairs living room. She is in a rather compromising position, her eyes fixated on the television.

"She's apparently afraid of the dark."

"Oh, how sweet." For some reason, her voice grates his nerves. Perhaps, it is more the words, "So, you know, tomorrow, I have errands to run." Ashley beckons him to her and he obliges, like a pathetic lap dog. Though, at least, he is conscious of his humiliating situation.

Squall sits nearby and suddenly, as if he'd just snapped his fingers; her hands descend across his chest, naval, unbuckling his belt. _Holy shit. _A second tongue in his mouth, it tastes like plastic. "Ashley, what the fuck are you doing?" He asks when she goes up for air.

"Giving you incentives for your company when I go clothes shopping tomorrow." She whispers wickedly into his ear, nibbles mischievously on the crook of his neck. _What well placed investments she makes._

"Here?" He asks, feeling this is the sole weakness that Ashley will ever be allowed to aim at. Squall concentrates on her warm breath on him as she slowly kisses his Adam's apple.

"Well, where else?" The girl has a soft, teasing tone she reserves for special occasions – such as when she needs to give motivation, _incentives_ as she calls them. Though he knows better. He knows she gets a kick out of it too. He knows that though she may be good at what she does, he is better. _100 satisfaction guaranteed. _His only problem is that he lacks self-control.

"My room, perhaps." His suggestion is weak, nearly imperceptible. He doesn't care anymore. As long as she hurries up.

"I don't think, baby," Ashley coos roguishly while her hand ventures into his pants, "that you can wait that long." In truth, he can't. _Numb the mind, keep me from thinking. Keep me from feeling. Keep me from being._

_You and I got something  
__But it's all and then it's nothing to me  
__I got my defenses  
__When it comes to your intentions for me  
__And we wake up in the breakdown  
__Of the things we never thought we could be_

-------------------------

She is taking too much liberty with him. Acting as though she has him on a leash, wrapped around her little finger, in the palm of her hand, whatever. This would have to be changed. Abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, that she may just lose face. It will feel good – making her crack. He holds the reins. He always holds the reins in every relationship he has ever been in. What makes her think she is so bloody different? Well, she isn't.

His fists are titanium weights as he stalks the aisles of silk, satin and lace. If he tightens his jaw anymore, he will break his teeth. And all through the while, a little girl about three apples high trails behind him singing, "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" – he is going to skewer her if she doesn't shut up. He will skewer Ashley if she doesn't _hurry _up. He will kill them all, he will commit a sexually-based genocide and blow the fuck out of every woman alive if he-

"Holy sh-" Wide-frightened eyes. He knows _those _eyes. Squall stops suddenly in the aisle, his sister bumping into the back of his legs and interrupting the joyful chorus. He just had been about to run a small figure right out of his path and straight into a circular file of latest cocktail dresses, "Hi, what the fuck are you doing here?" The young Adonis greets. _Dumb shit – she's not your buddy, she's a chick. _"I mean … 'Hi, what're you doing here?'" He corrects himself gracefully.

Clearly, she is aghast with incomprehension and appears like a deer caught in the headlights, "I … uhm … I work here." She has just turned as red as a traffic light and Squall can't help make a mental joke, _Stop. Do not cross._ _Danger._ Despite the fact that her eyes are wider than saucepans, there is certain exhaustion behind them that makes him dare to wonder what she has done last night. _Nah, she's not that kind of girl. Bet you she's never gotten past holding hands._ He doesn't know what it is, but there is something appealing in that.

"Wow, really? You know the owner or something?"

_Oh my God. He said "Wow" to something I said. Oh my God._ Rinoa's knees are barely working anymore, she is going to fall – this isn't good. _THIS IS HORRIBLE, WHAT IS HE DOING HERE! _"Uh … yeah, yeah, I'm related to the owner. He's my father." _Nice one, nice one. _"So … what are you doing here?" _So … beautiful … my legs … aren't … working …_

His blue eyes flinches at the question and then avoids it entirely, "Oh yeah? That's cool."

"Sorry, I need to, uh …" She stumbles around him, for the first time noticing the young one behind him giving her a wide grin. Rinoa smiles back feebly and nearly trips her way back to the counter.

"Ooooh my God, you just miiiiiissseeed iiiiit, hottest piece of meat on this rock of a planet at three o'clock – I think I just wet myself." Corealie fans herself with a receipt and rolls her eyes back in her head, making Rinoa click her tongue in annoyance.

"I'm aware, I just came out of the aisle of which he entered."

Her cousin gasps, a glint of absolute immaturity in her eyes, "So you'll admit that he's the hottest piece of meat on this rock of a planet? _I KNEW YOU HAD IT FOR HIM!" _Rinoa pushes her hand onto Corealie's gaping mouth in a vain attempt to shut her up, "_OH MY GOD, WHAT'RE YOU GOING TO TELL MATTHEW!_"

"SHUT UP!" Rinoa yells, fury sparking in her eyes – an emotion she seldom was pushed to. Her hands slam atop the countertop.

"What the _hell _is going on!" Her father hisses, appearing from the stairs. He stares at the two receptionists like an enraged behemoth, "_Why _are you both screaming? This isn't recess, girls, get back to _work_, know what that is?" Rinoa is a palette of red and Corealie is trying to muffle her snickers.

To the raven one's horror, Squall, Ashley and the kid descend from another aisle and stride by the counter. _What if they heard? Oh, who am I kidding! They so totally heard! Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, act natural, act natural … _The strawberry blonde has a look of utter superiority, a smug little smirk that makes Rinoa's stomach churn sickeningly, inciting ultra-sensitive gag reflexes. What if she throws up on Squall's brand-new looking, white New Balance running shoes? _"Oh, so sorry, let me pay for those …"?_

"Hello, how may I help you?" She has never seen her father change face so fast before, it is almost impressive. Rinoa scuttles behind the counter to join her sniggering cousin.

Squall remains silent and has a stare down with Ashley. _I'm not asking him for a dress, bitch – I'm not your fucking mouthpiece. _When she finally grasps a partiality of the mental message he is attempting to transmit, she wears a look of utter revulsion and begins speaking, "I need a dress for my parents' wedding anniversary. We're having a party. Formal."

"Sure, you may find a better selection for your event upstairs." Caraway motions to the stairs and Ashley begins striding towards them.

She turns back to the young man, "Squall, are you coming?"

"No." It is a blatant slap. Ashley snaps her gum and began climbing the stairs defiantly. Rinoa follows her father's final, discreet glare as he pursues the young lady, all the while chatting amiably about the different styles they have in stock at the moment and what her size is so they could better narrow their search.

Squall turns back to the two cousins coolly, "Right, you guys are related, right? You both work here."

"Mhmm." Corealie replies in Rinoa's place, who is busy shuffling useless scrap papers in the lower alcove of the counter, "Every weekend … you work anywhere?" How bold of her. Conversation comes so easily to her, Rinoa is almost envious. Why can't she just yak as unperturbedly as her cousin does? Why is she stuck with the "uhm"s, "err"s, "huh"s?

"Yeah, I work at SportsSkilled. Usually after school though, it must suck to have to work every weekend, no?" His voice is so smooth, so even, so deep. It was like listening to a drum: rhythmic, cavernous, neat. No melody. A beat. "Hey, Heartilly, you have any hobbies? I heard you were into photography."

_Oh my God … oh my God, he went through the trouble of finding out about me? No … maybe he just overheard. Oh … he's waiting for a reply isn't he? _Corealie answers for her, "She can also sing the theme of Sponge Bob Squarepants backwards and she's caught all two hundred and fifty one Pokemon on her GameBoy Gold edition."

Squall raises his eyebrow, "Wow, that's impressive. I gave up after my Charmander didn't evolve in the Blue edition." He's kidding, she knows this much. Charmander is probably the only Pokemon he knows. "That's _very _impressive."

She tries to laugh but it's stuck in her throat, instead, she calculates where Corealie's hand is leaning and pushes down on the stapler unexpectedly. "OW!" Corealie snaps, taken by surprise, "You just … _ow_ … you stapled my fingers!" She holds the wounds to her lips.

"Oh, did I?" Rinoa giggles faintly, "Sorry, I didn't realize."

"Can you really sing the Sponge Bob Squarepants song _backwards?_" The child has spoken for the first time. She has a sweet little voice, unlike her brother's, it is a tune that old sailors whistle on deplorable seas.

Rinoa bites her lip, smiling softly, "Not really. But I can sing it forwards. Corealie's just a chronic liar." Behind her, her cousin is giving the little girl a big hearty grin and thumbs up.

Sabrina beams back, "So you watch Sponge Bob sometimes? I hate Patrick. He makes me really angry. He's so annoying," She gives off an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes, "but Squidworth is cool in his own grumpy way …"

In disbelief that she's having this conversation, she replies hesitantly, "Yeah, Squidworth is pretty awesome …"

Suddenly, Sabrina turns back to her brother, "I like her, she's fun and pretty – why don't you date her instead?" There is suddenly a paralyzing fear that freezes Rinoa's marrow. _What did she just SAY?_

Squall scowls at her, "Do you ever shut up?"

Her brow knits and Sabrina pouts, crossing her arms sternly, "You're _mean_, I hope your bum falls off!"

"Oh no!" Corealie gasps, with mocked shock, "That would be _terrible!_" Then she cups the healthy hand to her mouth as if designating her next comment as a secret that everyone can overhear, "Rinoa would be _mortified_ if your brother's butt fell off – she finds it really cute."

Rinoa groans and hides her face in her hands. By the looks of it, she isn't going to live through the day.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Well, it's official – I'm a bad person. I'm also a really tired one. Who's craving a baked potato. Mm … potato.

Song lyrics featured in this chapter: "Here is Gone" by the Goo Goo Dolls.

By the way, I don't OWN anything except the idea of this story.


	4. Chapter 4

"_**The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet."**_

_-Andy Warhol_

----------------------------------------------------------

**Chapter IV: The Game of Appeal and Chance**

Mondays are always so despicable. This morning alone she has scalded herself twice with coffee, fallen down the stairs and jerked on her stubborn locker door so hard it wrenched open and gashed her forehead – meriting a few indiscreet sniggers from a crowd of cheerleaders watching with their "Venti" cappuccinos. _Let it go. Just … let it go. Who cares if they're flawless – I bet you they … uh … I bet you … I bet you they'll wet themselves in a spastic energy fit with that twenty ounces of caffeine in their perfect, shapely bodies. Yeah. That'll teach them. Stop talking to yourself._

And now, for another prime example - upon checking her schedule - she realizes what two classes she has the honor of assisting today. Literature and gym. Both within the first two morning periods. Suddenly, the urge to curl up into a corner and wait for faculty to usher her into the counselor's office is alluring. _When in doubt, look psychotic – it will work miracles. _Corealie's advice. Better not take it then. On the other hand, she does not want to see Squall and Ashley after Saturday's episode. The rest of the encounter inched by with her blushing and mumbling responses to his attempt at conversation. Needless to say, she went home wanting to drown herself in the toilet.

There is also Matthew to avoid. She hasn't spoken to him since Friday evening. Another incident referred to as _that night. _Rinoa refuses to acknowledge it as anything more because it was, in fact, nothing more. Pain, the only part deemed worthy of being remembered for future reference. Other than that, watching televised golf with a talking marmot may have been more interesting, and less awkward. Anyway, she doesn't want to think about it anymore or she _will_ end up in the counselor's office.

Rinoa looks at her reflection in the shiny, graffiti-ed surface of her locker door and sighs. Above her head, in permanent marker it reads, 'Sean K. is a looser.' Before closing the door and placing the familiar lock, she mutters to herself, "Rinoa H. is a looooser."

Literature drags by painfully, "Ibsen clearly identifies Hedda as someone who is bored of her own, limited world though she is aware that she cannot seek out other thrills than those currently available to her. She is unwilling to take the risk, fearing the unknown – fearing scandal, fearing exclusion of a society that made her so powerful, so untouchable."

"Mr. Garrison … I have a question." Zell raises his hand high and even waves it around for extra effect, "I don't understand how … _any of this_ is going to help me later on in life. Like seriously. No idea. Maybe the prophet wants to give her ol' theology talent another show-off?" A few people laugh and most turn to see Rinoa's facial expression. Stoic. _They can smell fear._

The bells rings. Can they smell relief?

She hopes not as she stacks her books, the endless plays and novels that she must decipher and dissect by the end of the term. She meets up with Corealie in the hallway, "Rinoa, what is up with you lately?" Her cousin asks, annoyed as they round a corner towards the gymnasium, "You look bloody depressed and quiet – more than usual. Yesterday, you stapled my fingers … you, like, never get violent. What is up with that?"

"You were crossing a very sensitive line." Rinoa admits, broodingly.

"How? By exposing your closet-addiction to your brother's, like, GameBoy?" Corealie stops by a garbage to dump her algebra homework and falls back in pace with Rinoa, "Rin, that was a joke and honestly – I think he got it too. Plus, I have something serious to talk to you about." She pushes her into a desolate hallway lined with grey lockers; some of them open with personal effects spilling out.

"When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see?" Rinoa just raises an eyebrow – a feat that had taken some good hours of practice back in grade five. Corealie looks impatient, "No, seriously, when you look at yourself in the goddamn mirror – as I'm sure you must – what do you see?" No answer.

Her cousin ignores this and goes on anyway, "Rinoa, I was just thinking … that 'same planet' crap that you fed to me, like, last Friday before Matthew came over – that's just what I said it was: crap." She gesticulates towards the ceiling as if the action is supposed to support the metaphor, "I don't know what you think is wrong with you but if you think Squall Leonhart is out of your league: wake up. If you wanted to date, like, Anakin Skywalker, then I may have a few choice comments but you want to date the captain of the Riverside High school soccer team … stop thinking you're not good enough. And for God's sake, stop acting like you're happy and start _feeling_ it."

"Corealie, mind your own business."

The sudden boldness in her cousin's reply is shocking but does not hinder the point she is attempting to convey, "This is my business. I care. I grew up with you. You take a lot more shit than you deserve. I swear, I so totally care, Rinoa. I do. What are you going to do? Date mommy's boys like Matthew your whole life and tell yourself they'll just have to do? I know you don't love him, hell, sometimes I wonder if you _like_ him. Why don't you just …"

The second period bell sounds threateningly from down the hall and a few classroom doors are heard slamming shut, "We're late for gym." Rinoa remarks apathetically and begins walking in the right direction again.

Corealie trails behind, frustrated.

"And why are you young ladies late for class?" Mr. Spencer stands tall, a basketball dribbling at his side. They come into the vast gym, changed and ten minutes behind schedule.

"Well, sir, it happened like this, you see …" Corealie began, making wild gestures to promise the audience that this story would be a good one.

"No, Corealie, we all know you're a brilliant storyteller. But I'm also not dense enough to know you specialize in fiction. In fact, we've tossed a couple of remarks in the staffroom and everyone mostly agrees. Why doesn't Heartilly come up with the excuse this time? Wouldn't that be a change?" Mr. Spencer stops dribbling the ball and looks at the shorter girl expectantly.

_What is with teachers and chewing me out these days? _Rinoa pauses and then explains in a smooth, projecting voice that surprises everyone, "Corealie has a girl problem today, Mr. Spencer. It makes her over-emotional and extremely difficult to deal with. I believe the technical term for it is-"

"Oh, cruel, cruel belligerent world!" Corealie cries out, over-exaggeratingly and throws herself to her knees, sobbing and hiccupping. She would be phenomenal in a Shakespearian drama. Rinoa returns to her regular self and blushes, putting a hand to her face. _Idiot. You goddamn idiot._

The class explodes into uproarious laughter and cheers. Everyone has always liked Corealie's vociferous manner, her stage-presence, especially her roles in school plays. "What a character!" Perhaps, but this is what gives them away.

"Well, that was entertaining, thank you, girls. I'll see you at the end of class where you'll volunteer your recess to clean up the vast amount of equipment we'll be using today." Mr. Spencer smiles a toothy grin and tosses the basketball to an expecting classmate, "And now for today's lesson. Everyone loves basketball …"

"Why did you have to ruin everything?" Rinoa asks calmly, an hour later as they leave the changing room and go back into the gym to pick up after their classmates, as instructed by Mr. Spencer. "Clearly, we could've gotten away with it if you hadn't had that highly acclaimed outburst." She slowly strides to a basketball and kicks it, a moment outside her personality.

"I'm sorry. It was against my nature to remain silent." Corealie replies smugly and picks up two orange balls to carry them off to the storage room across the expansive gymnasium. Rinoa keeps pushing the balls towards the other end of the room with the tip of her feet, sighing and muttering to herself.

Corealie returns from the storage room and for a fleeting moment, has an imperceptible look of bewilderment on her face, "Oh, hey, Rinoa, I just remembered … I have to go see my history teacher before I have him next period … you understand, right?" And with that she jogs away and out of the gym.

Rinoa whirls around to call out something fairly rude but the words get caught in her throat. _He _is coming towards her. His running shoes falling solid on the green linoleum floor with different colored duck tape setting up borders for thousands of unknown sports, "Hey, Mocha-eyes, looks like your cousin just ditched you."

_Mocha-eyes?_ Rinoa blushes, "Yeah. She does that a lot." Stammering with words, fiddling with her earring. _Mocha-eyes?_

"Need help?" He bends over and picks up a basketball, begins to dribble it like Mr. Spencer demonstrated.

She notices something. _Oh … God … crap. Should I tell him? NO. _Rinoa tries to stare him in the eyes without looking away, _What should I do? I have to. I can't … LIVE with it. _"Squall … um … the fly …"

"The fly?" He questions, awkwardly stopping the basketball. It hits his foot on the way back down and spins off away.

"Yeah. _Your _fly. It's … undone." Her head feels so hot, she worries it might explode in a colorful display of red embarrassment. _Yeah, good job. Now try explaining to him what you were doing looking at his crotch._

Squall looks down and his eyes go wide, frowning, "Fuck." He zips it, not seeming discomfited by the event, "Christ, hope no one saw that." His blue eyes go back to hers, "So, like I was saying – need help?" His lack of shame over the event, his cool exterior. He cannot be humiliated. He is the most powerful entity she has ever conversed with. For a moment, she is enthralled, she is enamored.

"Help would be …" She begins slowly but inhales and then, it tumbles out into a cacophony of stupidity, "appreciated but isn't necessary, I mean, I'm sure you have millions of more important things to do because you have a life – not that I know what that is, but I'm sure it's more interesting than picking up balls like a dog. You don't look like a dog. Well, in my opinion anyway. Not that my opinion matters. I'm sorry. I'll shut up." She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. Again, she blushes and puts her hand to her face, wincing.

He is smiling. It is the first time she has seen him smile, genuinely. "That's attractive."

"Huh?" She groans, mortified.

"I said, 'That's attractive'." He mimics her, touching the left side of his face with his right hand, "The way you just touch your eyebrow with the tips of your fingers every time you go red. That's attractive." Now, he is dead serious.

Her legs feel like jelly and she's about to pass out. Her stomach is pumping acid, every word coming from his mouth is making her comfortably numb, "Ahm … uh …" She flushes more but doesn't let her right hand move, denies the instinct. _He'll think I'm doing it on purpose now. Shiiiiiiiit._

"So, I think we should start cleaning if we plan to finish, eh?"

He does most of it; she lags behind, dropping balls. There's nothing to clean up in the gym, she's the bigger mess. When it's finished and the last ball is tossed into the bag, he turns to her again, "So, Mocha-eyes, what're you doing this Friday?" He taps his palms together and begins striding out of the room.

"I … uh … I don't know what I'm doing." She answers stupidly, wanting to take it back immediately. _I'm going to this super cool party at a mansion with my Hummer, want to hop in for the ride? There will be sweet music and awesome drinks laced with lots of drugs. Yeah. I do drugs. Aren't I cool?_

"Awesome, mind if I join you?" He asks, smirking again.

For a second, she believes she's actually said the lie about the party aloud, she freezes, "I … what?"

"You plan on eating dinner?" He's asking too many questions that don't necessarily relate to one another. She's lost in the ocean. His sea. His dark, blue eyes that drown her.

"I thought … it … may have been a good idea. I haven't really thought of it." She stutters unconfidently, unsure of where this is going – if it is, indeed, going somewhere in the first place.

"Well, if you want to go for some Italian, I know a really good place. I've been kind of craving pasta for a week now. And after we could just sit through a movie or something, if that suits you for a Friday evening." He finishes and stares at her. He isn't joking. There isn't even a hint of smile either. It's as if he's discussing business.

"I … yeah. I really like food. I mean … I like … pasta-food. Italian food." She winces at her blunder and attempts to clear her mind of what exactly has just happened. She's, as Corealie once put it, always five point nine seconds behind everyone else. In spite of common sense, she continues to speak, "So, I guess I'm having dinner then."

He nods, as if approving her decision, "Alright. I'll pick you up at five thirty, does that sound good?"

_Does it sound good? Sounds like a dream come true.  
_

_You made the call  
__I step outside, cross that line  
__And I lose control  
__Because I've been waiting  
__It's beautiful to let go, don't you know?  
__You're everything I try to be  
__The rise and fall to respond to the call  
__I got butterflies_

-------------------------

Much to his dismay, Squall comes home on Wednesday night to find supper almost laid out for him. His mother stirs the contents of a brewing concoction, humming to herself happily, "What're you doing?" He asks, bluntly and his eyes wander to the adjacent living room in the search of his sister.

"I'm preparing supper." Raine answers casually, smiling to her son before uncorking various bottles of spices from the nearby rack.

"Why?" His question is harsh, cantankerous. He only wishes to chase her from the kitchen, tears in her unforgiving eyes. _What the fuck is she up to?_

"Oh, really! You're impossible, Squall!" His mother lets out a sigh but resumes her peppy attitude, "Because your father is coming home tonight – silly!" This is a new prospect for him. His _"father"_ is coming _"home"._ The concept is laughable really but he remains silent. Sabrina has just strut into the room, a prized teddy bear hanging limp from her arms.

"So?" He drawls, stalks to the fridge and drains the milk carton into his open mouth, "_So?_" Squall is forced to repeat himself, having received no worthy answer the first time around.

"So, I thought it would be nice to have a family dinner."

Squall snidely replaces the empty carton in the fridge and begins scrutinizing the contents of the cupboards. She even seems to have gone grocery shopping. He's appalled. Sure enough, Laguna – a clean-shaven, pinstripe-suited man with Squall's build – shows to dinner an hour later.

Squall watches his parents converse pleasantly. A whirlwind of disgust hits him, sitting in the pit of his stomach and urging him to vomit all over the nicely decorated table. But he remains stoic. His thoughts are elsewhere. There is an uneasiness within him for the first time in ages. He feels as though Heartilly has been avoiding him since Monday – but perhaps it's just paranoia? Squall decides to ignore the outstanding fact that he has never gotten jitters from a chick before.

The prospect of being rejected terrifies him. What would his friends say? _Scandal. _He finds himself frowning. He can disregard the verity that he is anxious but he can not, and will not discard the intolerable fact that he has never dwelled so long on a face before. Squall finds himself obsessively fascinated with the way her eyelashes curve so sensually, so perfectly as to not obstruct the earthy opals that glimmer.

In a certain light, her eyes glow with a particular sandy-copper color, conductive and glowing yet in another, they become darker, deeper … mocha. There is hidden attraction in this, something Ashley does not possess. And he finds himself drawn to her habits. The curious manner she has when she blushes, for one. He has also remarked that, in literature, she gazes listlessly at the edge of her desk and chews on her lower lip – something which he also finds inexplicably striking

Squall ponders these things until he is lying on his back in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. He is trying to convince himself that this force of gravity will wear off indolently after one good fuck. It is possible, after all, that he is only pulled towards her because of the rare charm's exotic scent. _Yeah … just one, good fuck._

Friday night has sent her into a fit of panic. She has gotten home, called Matt, fed him some half-assed lie about spending time with a certain disheartened family member known as Corealie and hung up before he could question her further. Now, she is sitting in a corner of her room, terrified.

_Ok. Something to wear. Nice Italian restaurant. What to wear? You have no clothes. You can't even apply make-up. You don't know how to socialize. What are you worth? Nothing. You are worthless. Society shuns dumb broads like you. Call him and cancel. No. You can't. Why? You didn't even get his number, you stupid, worthless, idiotic piece of cr-_

The phone rings. She actually shrieks and then covers her mouth quickly. Her brother's head pops into the room and sneers, "You're such a freak. Are you going to get that? Or do you need a change of pants?" A shoe is thrown at the door.

"Get out, Mikey!" Rinoa manages through grit teeth and begins muttering, "Whymust his sole existence revolve around making my life completely and utterly miserable,– hello?" She has picked up the phone and awaits, with great dread, the voice on the other end.

"I hope you know, I lied for you." Corealie scoffs conspiratorially, "Matt called, asked me what was wrong with me … told me you said I was … disheartened? I fed a lie about a cute pool boy and his obnoxious girlfriend – he didn't seem to quite grasp or notice that we're in September and I have no need for cute pool boys anymore. So … why are you mendacious to the love of your life?"

"I'm not … 'mendacious' … to the love of my life. Particularly because I don't believe I've narrowed him down yet." Rinoa retorts, moodily, "And I'm not really lying. It's more like replacing select information. And I don't have time for your gloating sermons."

"But, Rinoa … you _always _have time for my gloating sermons!" Corealie exclaimed, near exasperation, "Unless …" And her voice revealed a tone of malicious cleverness, "Unless, you're going out tonight? Hmmm … ? Oh, I see how it is … who's the lucky number two?"

There was a silence from Rinoa's end where only deep, panicky breathes were being drawn, "Rinoa?" Corealie asked warily, "Are you hyperventilating?"

There was a frenzied whisper, " … I … don't know what to do – I'm so freaking out right now. Corealie, he's going to be here in an hour and a half!"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I've never been so sore. I do not own Anakin Skywalker. Or Starbucks coffee sizes. This is not why I'm sore.

Lyrics featured in this chapter: 'Longshot' by Waking Ashland.


	5. Chapter 5

"_**You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel."**_

_-Anonymous_

---------------------------

**Chapter V: The Descent**

It is like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Matrix style. The absolute pitiable hilarity of it can barely be contained. The situation may well be compared to the funny home videos she sees on television where children fall off swing sets; people hit their heads in doorframes; old couples dance and suddenly slip on the parquet flooring of living rooms. Corealie never knew her cousin could be _this _vocal.

Rinoa is choking on sobs and tearing apart her closet, "And like, I don't even want to _go_ because I suck so bad. I can just _see _it now, I'll probably hurl all over the table and he'll never talk to me again. I have _nothing _to wear-"

"Wear nothing. Guys like that." Corealie offers sympathetically.

The younger girl turns around gaping, her eyes red and puffy, "You know, I hope you think you're side-splitting because, just to let you know, I _would _wear nothing if I had something to _show _in the first place but _clearly_-"

"Rinoa – for the love of sliced bread – there must be, like, _some _reason why pretty-boy asked you out. Right? He wouldn't have just done it just because – he even staged it, like, came in after class to help you clean up? Unlikely. _CLEARLY_, he had planned to do this." Corealie flicks her hair impatiently and leans back on Rinoa's swivel chair.

"Yeah, so?" Rinoa snaps indignantly, "Haven't you ever seen those movies? Where the popular guy asks an ugly chick out so he can win a bet or because it's like a funny joke with his hot jock friends? Yeah. Bet you that didn't cross your mind!" Her hands close into fists at her sides as the volume of her voice graduates to a yell.

Corealie mimics her shamelessly, "Yeah, so?" A pause, "Does it really matter? I mean, at the end they always end up playing, like, tonsil hockey and as the credits roll, you can almost hear the sound of them fornicating as background noise. Happy ending. Booya. What're you worried for?"

Rinoa seethes ruthlessly enunciating her words, "My – life – is – not – a – Hollywood production!"

Her cousin gasps and goes on smartly, "Very well put! So where are you getting this idea of a bet or funny jokes with hot jock friends?" Rinoa turns blue from holding her breath in rage and finally releases an exasperated sigh filled with aggression, "Why don't you just wear, like, jeans and a tank top? It's still summer, I don't think you want to go all out with the conservative look yet. As for make-up, I don't think the 'ho' look suits you well. Perhaps you should choose an alternative, like, … oh, let's see, 'keep it simple'. Are you up to _that _challenge?"

"No." Rinoa retorts dryly, boiling with contempt.

"Great. Let's get started, he's going to be here in, like, t-minus fifteen minutes."

A mere ten minutes later, Corealie had broken out into an inexorable slew of singing, '_Slide your feet up the street, bend your back. Shift your arms then you pull it back. Life is hard, you know – oh-wee-oh – so strike a pose on a Cadillac._'

"God, will you shut up?" Rinoa bawls over the entire clamor. She has bended to Corealie's suggestion of an outfit and has even lowered herself to mere running shoes as well.

In a cacophony of noise pollution, Corealie's _'They sing and dance – oh-wee-oh – spin the clubs, cruise down the block.' _is intercepted by Mikey's, _'Oh, Black Betty – bam-ba-lam! Woah, Black Betty – bam-ba-lam!'_ Suddenly, Rinoa cracks entirely, "Will everyone in this house just shut the hell up!" The scream is almost deafening, compared to her usual demeanor.

"Wow!" Her cousin exclaims, clapping, "Squall Leonhart, where have you _been?_ Look at the pair of lungs that girl has on her and, like, who would've ever known? Barely dating and look at the wonderful changes in your already! Complete and total loss of control. This is a good thing."

"You are out of your mind!" Rinoa shrieks to her cousin's back.

Corealie is looking out the bedroom window, "_And_ there's a jeep in your driveway. This is the part where you lose _your _mind." She turns to the very pale and very shaky Rinoa, "Now remember a few guidelines: no sex on the first date. Oh, who am I kidding? _No touching_ on the first date, that _is _the ladder you, like, go by, correct? Like … your first base is holding hands and- are you okay? Have you tried breathing? It helps."

"I can't go."

"Oh, fiddlesticks!" Corealie snaps her fingers, "That means he really _will_ never talk to you again. You don't know what that could do to his pride, how much it could hurt him – being stood up by an ugly chick like you. He would like, totally not forgive you. You're so totally fucked." The older cousin picks up Rinoa's purse from the bed and throws it in her general direction.

"This isn't a date! Why don't you ever try to _help?_" Rinoa whimpers incensed, barely catching the bag.

"Because." Corealie begins slowly and smiles, pushes her out of the room and nearly throws her down the stairs, "Deep down – I know you don't need it." She even charges herself of flinging the front door open for Rinoa, "Go get him – but like seriously, on first dates – no tongue. You'll look like a total slut." With a swift push, the mother bird tosses the baby from the nest and onto its own wings.

And before closing the door, "Bye-bye, honey – be safe, use condoms!"

Rinoa turns to give one last, incinerating glare only to be staring at a shut door.

By some unforeseen miracle, she manages to make it to the front seat of the jeep. She even musters a, "Hey, how are you?" Not even a constipated 'hello' but an actual smooth 'hey' – she's _almost_ proud of herself. _Almost. _

He looks at her over his shades and _almost_ smiles, "Hi. I'm good, and how about you?" His eyes return to the rearview mirror as he backs out of the driveway and back onto her street.

"I'm good." She repeats but trips over his mannerisms, "Why?" There is something odd in the way he asked. What has he seen that she's missed? What does he know that she ignores? This is dangerous. She knows this is dangerous. Tread on a splintered tight-rope. There is no one there to catch her.

Squall is taken aback. This is a question he seldom has to deal with … _Why?_ _I don't fucking know why – it's a custom, just how you start a conversation. What the hell, man? _For a minute, he debates with himself. _Is she being serious? _He decides, _She is._ And so the young man formulates an answer, "Because I just wanted to know how you were." There is no waning question mark to his sentence. It is a statement.

"Oh okay, I'm … I'm sorry – just … never mind. It … i-it sounded like you meant something entirely different." Rinoa stutters gracelessly, her porcelain face suddenly illuminates to a shocking fire-engine red – as if lipstick smears her cheeks. She forgets the once-had conversation and covers her face. There is no longer an _almost _about his grin, which flusters her further.

"Right." The scenery is fleeting by too fast to her liking – he's either driving far beyond the speed limit or her mind is playing tricks. But then she wonders how much of a mind she has left and whether or not it's clever enough to deceive. She wonders if she'll follow through with the irrational thoughts that plague her. _Jump out of the car. Just leap out. Like a gazelle. Stop talking to yourself._

His driving is mechanical. Awe-inspiring. He manages to steer with detachment, void of effort. For a moment, she wonders if he's paying attention. An attraction to his indifference sparks. This is dangerous. She knows this is dangerous. The fuse is already too short, yet an ember burns through the wick slowly. Rinoa anticipates the explosion. A colorful disarray of fire. She knows this is dangerous. Just not _how _dangerous.

At a red light, he turns to her, "So, photography, eh?"

From then on, she is lost in a whirlwind of confusion. The kind that tickles the inside of your stomach and makes you smile stupidly when you pause for breath because otherwise, your mouth is just opening and closing with things you're surprised to hear yourself say. Conversation suddenly becomes so much easier. She is elated.

The topic has sailed along smooth waters to their common-grounded literature class, "Zell's outbursts do have points, sometimes, how are we supposed to relate to seventeenth century, psychotically complex characters? Someone who speaks in sonnets can't be expected to be taken seriously by a bunch of kids who can't even articulate modern English properly."

Squall laughs and cuts the ignition of the car, "I don't care whether his outbursts have a point or not – he still makes me want to punch his face off." This casual exchange of feelings is odd for him. Opinions or emotions are usually never uprooted in his interactions with others.

"Yeah, what is your beef with him anyway?" She is stunning herself tonight. Why has everything suddenly become so easy? An ailing paranoia sets in that there may be deeper consequences to this suddenly out-of-the-closet social beast she has seemingly incarnated.

"I … just …" Squall is joking now, acting out his frustrations as if they cannot be worded, "I can't begin to explain it." His hands closing to fists at the level of his eyes, "I just want to beat the living shit out of him, every time he's close by." He then snarls like a wolf for effect and unbuckles his seatbelt.

The Italian eatery is a simply place by the water. The sweeping patio is built of stone and wooden banisters. There is an extensive view of the downtown islet with its many lights, smoggy skies and the imposing iron bridge linking it to the suburbs. The inside of the restaurant is like a barren tavern, the main business centered in the middle of the expansive room where the bar sits, idle. Around, there are slanted, square tables – much like the ones on the veranda – dressed in plastic red-and-white, checkered table clothes. In the imperfect center of each, a lit lantern flickers uncertainly.

He finds there to be a certain charm to this hole in the wall. There is a romantic aspect to it all – the view, the dim lights, the uncomfortable seats and the terribly long service that leaves mystery to the plainly lengthy and awkward silences. Quixotic, something every woman he encounters longs for. Something he is not. This place usually does the trick. And the food is often better than the shit they throw at you in a McDonald's.

Although, he quickly realizes that there was no need for this romanticist behavior. Soon, they are discussing prospects of university – something he has never spoken to anyone about. Ironically, he seems to have taken the floor, "Like ever since I've been a kid, you know, my father would pay me ten bucks to wash the car and I liked doing that. I seriously enjoy learning about cars, mechanics, whatever. You know how physics is such a pain in the ass to a couple of people, well I like it. I'm honestly interested in that shit."

She only smiles, making it so much easier for him to go on, "And you know, people get through high school thinking it'll never end. But man, if they think I'm sticking around once I get that nice little roll of parchment in my hands – boy, I'm just gonna blow that fucking pop-stand. Everything about now is just a crock of shit. I'm not going to waste another heartbeat sinking in quicksand." Listening to his own voice over and over is making him nauseous. He's never said so much in such a short span of time. He feels vulnerable, swallowing hard, he asks, "And you?"

Suddenly, Rinoa feels nervous. She has eased too much into his words, now it's her turn, "W-well … I don't really know _what _to make of high school." What does she say? _I hate going in some mornings, knowing your friends stare me down in the bathroom, in the locker room, everywhere they can. I hate coming to class knowing one of your exes will laugh as soon as I'm forced to open my mouth. I hate the way you've ignored me till now. I hate the way you're suddenly paying attention. You broke the rules. We never co-exist. _She glances towards the door connecting the terrace to the dining room where a waiter has appeared. The interruption is taken with great gratitude from her part.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Uh, yeah." Squall replies immediately but then looks across the table to her, "Sorry, I am … you?"

"Sure." She scans a column of the menu one last time and meekly asks for fettuccini with alfredo sauce and a glass of water. Squall orders something similar and the waiter walks off with the menus. Rinoa looks back to the young man and half-whispers, almost fearfully, "What?"

Squall's eyebrow is raised and he has an impervious smirk in the corner of his lips. He remains mute, stretching her nerves. "What?" She repeats, this time with more anxiousness.

He begins to laugh and plays with his sunglasses that are sitting in a corner of the table, "Sorry, but … you're nothing like any girl I've ever taken out before." Deadpanned redness consumes her face like hell was unleashed from her insides. Squall attempts to redeem himself but can do little with the chuckles that periodically escape his throat, "It's not … a bad thing." He manages to wheeze out. For a split second, the young man almost adds, _No one has ever been so in sync._

A cooling breeze steals into the air and Rinoa shivers with a panic-stricken realization, "Wait … this is … a date, isn't it?" As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes she has made a mistake. Offended him, perhaps. Confounded him. Really, she has never drawn that magic line between acquaintances and lovers. She is too young. Not ripe enough. Or she is feigning innocence again, attempting to cleanse herself of blame. _I swear, I never knew._ Already, she anticipates Matthew's indignation when he finds out. There is no _if _about anything anymore.

Her questioning further supports his statement. Most girls just accept the outing for what it is and mentally prepare themselves to remove their clothing when the evening comes to a close. Why is she inquiring on the nature of their dinner and movie? She is complicating matters, adding a psychological atmosphere to them. A certain claim to an unbreakable bond. A vow. A promise. He is not ready. He has never been. The way her cocoa eyes stroke his features is inhuman. He is dueling with a child – he cannot strike back and his defenses are futile.

"Yes." A freefall, suicide. He replies austerely, his mouth dry. Squall is finding himself in great need of a cigarette. She is making him abandon all assurance.

The answer does not seem to shock, nor does it seem to have been predictable. It stands rigidly balanced on a line between surprise and expectancy – something he didn't even fathom could exist. His hypothesis on her seems to have become a law, as valid as Newton's – she is unlike anyone else. She stammers shyly, embarrassedly, "O-oh …" And then, as if daring herself to inquire, "What … what about Ashley?"

_Hypocrite._ She chides herself mercilessly, _Filthy hypocrite._

"What about Ashley?" He is better at handling these situations. Every girl always asks about a phantom leering in the bedroom door – but perhaps with more gloating smugness of being tangible, not a translucent figure intending threats and malice. Rinoa asks with timorous dread. Perhaps she is afraid of ghosts.

"I … I thought …"

"Aw, no way." He interjects, floating back into his shell, "She's just really interested." There is a daring silence. This recurring comment usually bargains a laugh, a sensual show of teeth but Rinoa tries to keep stoic – failing – and instead interpreting a fearful look of utter bewilderment. "Besides, I'd hate to be a lapdog."

_If I wane, this could die  
__If I wait, this could die  
__I want you … to take me out  
__If I move, this could die  
__If eyes move, this could die  
__Come on, take me out._

It is Squall who suggests they "ditch" the movie. He nearly wants to kick himself in the balls when he stupidly admits his legs get cramped in the aisle making him incapable of sitting through a motion picture. Rinoa is clandestinely beyond relieved. The thought of sitting next to Squall for two hours in the dark is making her fidgety and shaky.

So instead, he leaves the jeep and leads her to the boardwalk. He paces himself, nervously, making sure he isn't rushing ahead and leaving her behind. This is something he's never done with anyone else. They're usually the ones who have to keep up. She looks so content, her eyes scanning every angle of the sky – the breeze teasing a few strands of her hair.

They chat, serenely, under the stars of a thousand gods that bless and curse them with time. Squall walks to the edge of a banister, an old train track running underneath on a cliff overlooking the sea. "Hey, check out the view." He squints into the distance and jumps over the balustrade, landing neatly on the rails. Dead leaves pack under the wooden rungs and his footsteps crunch as he turns back towards her. "Coming?"

She slips under the railing and takes his outstretched hand, jumping off the concrete and onto the soft, mossy ground. Their fingers intertwine and they feel nothing else for a moment. Everything becomes cold, goose-bumps plague her arms and her neck prickles with nerves. Her fingertips brush against his rough knuckles and she wants nothing more than to let go before she sinks deeper.

Yet he is holding on.

_You're being a fucking cock._ He mentally curses himself but refuses to let the rope slip and burn him as it whips away. This is no longer his terrain. He has a feeling it's not hers either. This is good. It allows improvisation. It allows mistakes. Squall turns and pulls her to the edge of the abandoned rails. "You like scenery much?"

His voice and touch melt together to a perilous bliss, she can hardly answer, "It's alright, once in a while."

The next remark is teasing, she feels his breath on her cheek as he leans in, "I agree – you're much better to look at."

His lips graze her temple lightly and he knows she won't reply. He feels her hand tremble slightly within his and so he bends down, ignoring his pride's murderous cries, and whispers cautiously into her ear, "Mind if I kiss you?"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I wonder how long I can go without a plotline before you all commit mutiny. Perhaps forever? Muwaha … ahhh …

Lyrics featured in this chapter: Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand … Franz Ferdinand who was also the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary. Franz Ferdinand who's assassination was a spark point that lead to World War One. Of course this really has nothing much to do with the band. Bask in my superior knowledge.


	6. Chapter 6

"_**Thou art to me a delicious torment."**_

_-Ralph Waldo Emerson_

--------------------------

**Chapter VI: Icy Sparks**

Three little words echo in her mind like a sadistic mantra. _No, not yet._ She softly bangs her forehead on the front door and then locks it. _No, not yet._ What is she waiting for again? She better not recount the tale to Corealie or she'd be subjected to perpetual mockery. _No, not yet._ The broken record spins over and over, "Idiot, idiot, idiot."

Her older brother is leering in the kitchen doorframe, his brawny silhouette against a golden backdrop, enhanced by a television screen, "So, where did you go?"

"None of your business." The baby sister retreats sighing, climbing the stairs lethargically. She tries to ignore the fact that he is charging after her and that he will surely catch up in three, two …

"Come off of it. Where the hell were you?" He stalks up to her and forcefully grabs her shoulder, "Or no, I'm a nice guy – you don't even have to answer that. But just so you know, Matthew happens to be one of my good friends." Michael hasn't been this angry since she broke his Playstation2 last year. That was an accident though, tripping over it and sending it flying on the wall. This is no accident. His jaw is clenched though the words are so well articulate she cannot feign incomprehension.

"Ok." She acknowledges broodingly. Rinoa is not good at reacting to anger – she has never found the right arguments to retaliate, though neither has she ever given up the pride to recede, "Guess you can tell him then." Her voice is exhausted and her thoughts are elsewhere. _No, not yet._

"Man, what the fuck?" He slams his hand on the wall, obstructing the way to her room, "Are you like a little whore now or something?"

"I just went out with a friend. God, Mikey, what's your problem?" How many times have they done this? Michael's voice a low hiss, while hers is a strung-out whining howl as if a puppy is being kicked – _'You just stepped on my racing track!' 'I didn't see it there …' 'Why are you so stupid? I'm going to tell mom!' 'I didn't mean to. God, Mikey, what's your problem?' 'You're my problem, you stupid-head!'_

"Corealie seemed to think otherwise!" He snarls at her and glowers, "You want me to talk to mom and dad when they come back from the store? We can have a nice, little family talk …"

"Like the time you were stealing dad's cigarettes and selling them at school?" Rinoa retorts nastily but then subdues, "I don't understand why you're making such a big deal out of this – Corealie was just prancing on her own little planet, as usual."

"'Prancing on her own little planet' – oh boy, sounds like someone else I know." Mikey sneers, "Don't fuck around with my friends, alright? They aren't the little dickheads you see in high school, you should be grateful Matt's treating you nice. He likes you."

"So he's let on." The remark isn't meant to be sarcastic but it escapes her lips with a million of presuppositions. Rinoa bitterly rants on, she has given up on easing the intensifying glare of her brother, "How would you know how he treats me anyway? Does he give you a play-by-play of everything we do? Did you sign a contract with him? 'Terms of dating my annoying baby sister'? Or was that dad's idea?"

"Matt knows he owes that to me, anyway."

"Oh, so did he text-message you right after we had sex?" She has not meant to 'break the news' like this. She has not meant to break the news at all. Especially because of the repercussions it will have on Matthew. Matthew whom she's betrayed countless times tonight. But a one final strand of fidelity lies impeccable. _No, not yet._

Michael's face loses all superiority and his clenched jaw suddenly loosens and his mouth gapes open, "What?" He demands, drowning in venom, "Say that again?"

Rinoa draws a breath, her face flushed, "Did he text-message you?" This confrontation must be avoided; her father must never find out; Corealie must never find out. Matthew must never find out about tonight and Squall must altogether disappear from her reality and redeem his cut-out space back into the book of her fantasies.

Her brother's voice is a tumultuous roar, "The last part, Rin – I meant the last fucking part!"

"Just go away!" She shoves him aside and clambers the last few stairs as an automatic garage door opens. Her parents are home. Mikey immediately cuts his curses short and pounds down the stairs to the basement where he will shut himself off to everyone for the remainder of the night. She knows he won't speak to her within a week but she has no clue what he'll do to Matt. And suddenly, as she slams her door shut, an undeniable conviction swallows her. She doesn't care.

Laying over the covers of her bed, she shuts herself away and closes her mind to everything but the seven digits recited by a deep, wolfish voice.

_You don't remember me_

_But I remember you_

_I lie awake and try so hard_

_Not to think of you_

_But who can decide what they dream?_

_And dream I do …_

Rejection. He wallows in this feeling on the trip home and when he finally cuts the engine in the driveway, he leans back in his seat and sighs. Squall decides his momentary failure is beautiful and he basks in it. No one has ever told him _that._ "No, not yet?" He asks himself softly, "Not _yet?_" He hopes no one hears wind of this … he does not feel like mocking her with his buddies in the locker room. Not her.

Her denial has stirred an otherwise stagnant pool of revelations.

Some that he does not feel ready to acknowledge.

In his frustration, Squall slams his hands on the wheel, cursing, "What the fuck? 'Mind if I kiss you?', what the FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?" He is a master of emotions, but not of humanity. Life has simply taught him to use solitude for what it's worth – exhaling, "You NEVER ask that question! You never have and you never will again! You don't fucking hold hands! Fucking pansies do that! You fucking cock!" He punches the dashboard and the glove compartment falls open under the impact, "FUCK YOU!"

He closes his eyes and begins chewing the tip of his thumb, tearing under the skin and peeling it off. A pleasing sensation comes from this masochistic act. A comfort of weakness.

When he is ready, he turns on his cellphone and watches his screen illuminate with '19 missed calls'. Squall is almost laughing when the phone immediately begins to ring. Surprised? Not so. After the fifth ring, he answers as apathetically as he can muster, "Speak."

"Where were you?" The sharp voice demands at the other end, as if he's committed a serious offence by leaving certain boundaries without asking her permission, "I tried calling you, like, a thousand times – you never answered!"

"My phone was off."

"Well then, what's the use of having one then?" Ashley scolds relentlessly, her penetrating tone hitting him over the head with a newspaper like one would a dog, "I was expecting a nice romantic evening out, and what do I get – an irresponsive boyfriend! I'm warning you, Squall, I am in a bad fucking mood, ok? Got it? I'm so totally tripping on PMS right now, is that clear? Don't _ever_ do that to me again." And then suddenly, the question springs from a closet of demonic tricks, "Are you cheating on me?"

"I'm not your fucking pet Chihuahua, Ashley." Squall snaps, avoiding the last question like the vile trap that it is.

"Oh, I know. I read that in a magazine. Men don't like to be referred to as possessions. Want to know what else I read in that very same magazine? 'A Hundred and One Tricks to Light his Fire' … speaking of which – guess who's not getting any _for a week?" _She sounds so sickeningly satisfied with herself, like she's dealt the biggest trump card of her entire tramp career.

Tonight, he feels responsive, "Oh no. Not for a week. Please, baby, please. I'm so sorry." His voice drones sarcastically until he bites through with truth, "Look Ashley, don't fuck around. That leash you wrapped around your ex-boyfriend's dick – that won't work on me. Now, I'm warning _you_ that _I _am in a bad fucking mood – and it's not something that goes away very cyclically. My moods are quite linear, is that clear? Where I go, with whom I go and what I do is none of your fucking business unless I invite you along. Now don't _ever_ feed me that bullshit again." He ends on dry air that carries through for several seconds.

"So what? Is this what I am to you? Some cheap whore that you don't even pay?" Her usual cool, sensual edge is gone and all that remains is hot-wired panic.

"Something like that, yes."

Chivalry is truly dead.

-------------------------

During study hours, this is where they congregate. Several underlings clogging an arterial staircase to the second floor, they sit on the linoleum stairs. He leans on the windowsill, looking out through the pane of dirty glass onto the football field below where a troop of cheerleaders are rehearsing their routine, "When are the soccer try-outs?" He asks lazily, his eyes half-closed as if feigning the little care he is showing.

Chris is a short, stocky jerk who cat-calls and whistles to any female that could appear on the cover of Vogue. He usually enunciates with a barbed smugness, "Tomorrow at lunch, man. How could the _captain_ not know _that?_" Chris flashes pearls of white and eyes Irvine conspiratorially. "Anything on your mind?" He knows this is a dead-ended question but asks it solely because of the sexual innuendoes it pulls around amuses him.

Squall remains silent while Irvine, Chris and a few other stupid pricks chat up on the festivities being passed around campus. _Same stupid shit, same stupid shit. Wonder where she is._ The captain gets onto his feet and begins descending the staircase, "Yo, man, where's you going?" The gang begins hustling, moving.

"To take a piss." He lies. When he sees they are still herding around towards him, he adds vicariously, "And I don't need anyone to aim for me." They snigger but stay put as he jogs down to the first floor and into the large, near-empty hallway. Everyone else must be in the study hall or class. Squall strides into the library and ignores the awed looks he receives from those who notice him standing on tip-toe to look over the divisions of the study booths.

He climbs the stairs, two-by-two to the second floor and scans between the shelves and studying areas. Finally, his target is located, leaning over a mess of copybooks and hand-outs at a cubicle. Squall occupies the free desk next to hers and stares a moment – waiting for reconnaissance; he is not used to not being noticed.

A select few strands of hair rebelliously fall onto her face, hindering her left eye. She tries fruitlessly to carefully tuck it behind her ear but the lock persists and finally she resolves to biting her lip and jotting down her fifth essay outline. The beginning and end to her 'o's never quite meet in the right spots, her 'j's are so smoothly curved and never dotted – and why is he noticing this anyway? Finally, he whispers so not to attract unwanted librarians, "Hi, how are you?" He can find nothing more original.

She drops the pencil, shocked and stares at him a moment, "I … uhm … hi." She scrambles for words, her efforts fruitless. Rinoa is unbelievably relieved that he is still speaking to her. She is also unbelievably terrified, "I'm ok. Good. Great. You?"

"Kind of still reeling from being spurned on a first date with this girl I have my eye on." He jokes, smirking mischievously – he's never quite done this before, "Not to mention she didn't even call me afterwards." The flush on her cheeks is priceless and then, there is also the cute habit she has with hiding the embarrassment. He decides he quite enjoys fooling around – but only with her. He wouldn't dream of doing this with Ashley.

Ashley.

She watches him from the second to last aisle with a look of raging contempt. What is she doing in the library anyway? He wasn't even aware she could read. In fact, why isn't she out with the cheerleaders, throwing her pom-poms up and down and generally being annoyingly enthusiastic about everything? He's going to ignore her and pay the price later. Nothing is worth ruining his moment with Mocha-Eyes.

"I'm … really … sorry." Her voice is barely a nervous squeak.

"Aw, come on, I was kidding." He laughs quietly and adds, "Want to do lunch?" He asks this completely ignoring the repercussions. They are in a private public world where everyone interrelates to the other, where rumors grow like filthy fungus on a moist tree stump. Suddenly, he finds himself hoping she has prior engagements. He is not ready to deal with the locker room exchanges of 'Did you fuck her yet? Is she good?'. This is too odd of a match. People won't just exhilarate themselves on it, they'll probably climax.

Can _she _deal with it?

"Squall, lunch was an hour ago." A sort of bittersweet relief washes over him, like a cold tide licking his sore feet. The smile in the corner of her lips is the beautiful bane of man's existence. Paradox: she should not be allowed to exist but then how can anything else be without her? For a moment, Squall learns to breathe again. The unrest that is his soul wanes to a flicker, like the wick of a candle dancing with the flame.

"Well … uh … right." He blinks, fumbling for the first time with a catch. _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale._ The motions are so difficult to carry on, unexpectedly. Softly, his lips break open to a smile and he finds himself flushing and damning himself, "Yeah, good one. Ok … how about coffee after school and I'll drive you home. By coffee I mean an over-priced frozen beverage at a corporate owned coffee shop."

"That … yes. That sounds great."

-------------------------

He is still mentally gloating about his victory and strong comeback when her face shatters the wall to another 'reality'. There are gears clicking into place, the way she eyes him reveals just enough of her intentions for him to be unsettled, unnerved. Whatever sinister chain of events she is about to catalyze, he knows they will be meticulously, perfectly carried out. Swiftly, the athlete's mind analyzes – without even meaning to. His senses take over, the world slows down for him.

_What class is this?_ Theater. _Who is here?_ Half of his teammates, Melissa Wayfarer's clique, Corealie Caraway. _What opportunity does she - … shit._ It's too late, he can't skip, the teacher has already arrived and has shut the door with a definite slam. Squall wants to raise his hand, ask to go to the washroom, say he's about to vomit – it's not far from the truth. No good. Whatever dramatic monologue Ashley's prepared for him, he'll have to hear it.

"Today, we're going to try to incorporate the gestures, that we practiced last class, with a heavy amount of dialogue. The characters are to be made as realistic as possible – yet as exaggerated as the actor can muster, why? Because we're on stage, people. We've got grand-pa and grand-ma sitting in the back row, they're half blind, you think they'll see Romeo and Juliet committing the most intense joint suicide ever if you meekly stab yourself? No." Mr. Stephenson had chosen the right class to teach – ever so the dramatist, he had an uncanny way of overstate every single one of his declarations.

As if on cue, Ashley bounced – literally – off her stool and strode to the front of Squall's desk. The opening had been much too perfect. It was as if God gave him the finger and told him, "Hey there, son, sit on it and rotate!" Squall closed his eyes and propped his feet onto the table – the least he could do was look cool as the bomb set herself off.

"You goddamn, son of a bitch!" Excellent start. "You think you can treat me like a whore? Like _your _whore? You're nothing but a little cheating prick – you think I'd never find out? I've seen eunuchs with more balls than you!" She dove right into to the point, would this make a moment shorter? Everyone's eyes were on the couple now, the teacher even looked impressed. Ashley gesticulated wildly, her fists occasionally slamming on the wooden desk. Squall was stoic, "I'm a _woman_, Squall! You? You're a knuckle-dragging barbarian, 'Oh, fuck this, fuck that' – well FUCK YOU!" Admirable drive, "We're over. Don't call me, don't drop by, don't even look at me anymore and one day, you'll realize you traded in a Ferrari for a 1983 piece of shit Cadillac. Rinoa Heartilly-Caraway, really! Was it just because she was easy?"

"Hey, woah, alright!" Corealie sprung from her seat and snapped viciously, "Let's just all chill the fuck out, children! Someone forgot to take her Valium!"

A giant Calculus textbook was thrown against the desk to deliver a finalizing snap and the eyes of everyone returned to the front of the class where Stephenson was beet-red in the face, "QUIET! Everyone take their seats immediately, I think a couple of people need to see the counselor." Had he really just realized that this wasn't an act? Squall was ready to bet on it.

As the teacher finished his sentence, Ashley gave off a pained yelp and stormed out of the class forcing tears from her eyes. Squall looked on, skeptical. _Good riddance, good bye. _The class faced mortuary silence until Chris broke it with a haughty cackle, "Well, well, well – Squall, you _completely _forgot to mention this one at lunch!"

The captain looked past the idle-minded idiot to the figure behind him. Corealie's eyes relayed a message of their own, _Rinoa better not suffer the repercussions of your entanglements. What is your plan?_

As the bell rings, a fairly contented Rinoa forces her way to her locker as the mass of students course through the halls like water rushing from a dam. There seems to be a slowly rising excitement within the student body this afternoon – like a movie in rising action but she pays no attention, she never usually does.

She is much too preoccupied fiddling with her mental f-stops, judging how much she wants from the focus. The young photographer catches sight of two people leaning into each other, whispering some sort of delicious gossip … _click._ The frozen frame of memory has their clear outlines with the mass of people behind them as blurred and as insignificant as they are.

Before she can completely pack away everything into her bag, Corealie grabs her elbow and shuts her locker – narrowly missing her cousin's nose as the metal bangs together and the lock is replaced, "Hurry up, now – you're not going to want to be here in a few seconds."

"Why? Is there a bomb?" Rinoa asks, dazed, and slings her backpack onto her shoulder.

"Yeah, actually, something like it." Corealie replies snappishly and pulls her cousin away from the enclosing crowd. Rinoa is suddenly in angst-ridden awe at an awkward revelation – they were looking at her. _Did they just give me a dirty look?_

There is no questioning it – Sarah Gallahger's stare is definitely one of utter scorn, "Why was she glaring at me? Corealie?" Rinoa mutters underneath her breath, just loud enough for her relative to hear, "I don't ever talk to her."

"She probably found out that you stole her forthcoming boyfriend, her latent prom date and the love of her life." Corealie explains lightly, pulling Rinoa at mach speed down the crowded main hallway.

She is confused. Something does not match up. Why does she hear her name amongst the murmurs of her peers? She cannot keep up with Corealie's pace. It is too fast. Too fast. There is not enough light in the hallway, her shutter speed is too measured, the pictures are blurred. Simple ribbons of existence – nothing discerning, nothing precise, nothing distinct.

"Ok, I'll explain to you briefly. In a moment, you're about to make your first appearance in a really popular soap opera, slash, reality show. What I want you to do is breathe, smile and have coffee with the gentlemen waiting for you in the black, Jeep Wrangler in the school parking lot. Get ready."

Unwillingly, she is propelled through the front doors of Riverside High school. The sun is blazing. Her light meter goes off the wall. The film is overexposed, ruined.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **A call to the people: do not "refrain from commenting" on anything in your reviews. Tell me it sucks Chewbacca balls, if you feel it necessary but for the love of literature– SAY IT.

Song lyrics featured in this chapter: Taking Over Me by Evanescence.


	7. Chapter 7

"_**Things do not change, we change."**_

_-Henry David Thoreau_

--------------------------

**Chapter VII: Fisheye**

Her hands are iced to the plastic cup where drops of cold water trickle down onto her frozen fingertips. She can't fathom what was going through her mind when she ordered this – her body is sensitive enough to air conditioning alone, why would she chew (because drinking is out of the question) an ice cappuccino? In fact, she doesn't even like caffeine. It makes her jittery – nothing to do with her shivering hands of the moment, however.

He has no idea what to expect now. The road to hell is not paved. It's showered with sharp gravel that stings his knees every time he trips and falls. This is the greatest stagger of all – he thinks he's just left his face on the ground, there's blood in his eyes. Everything burns like a bitch. Penny for her thoughts? He would sell his soul for them, anything but this deafening silence where she bites on the tip of her straw and looks at everything save for him.

She isn't half as panicked as she should be, of this at least, she's aware. Just give a moment for the cold coffee to be fully absorbed into her bloodstream – then she'll permit herself to freak out. But _what _is there to freak out about anyway? Well, besides the fact that the majority of the female population at Riverside now wanted to gut her and pull her spine out from her-

"I'm really sorry about everything …"

But really, why? Because she has Squall Leonhart's heart? She doubts it. Actually, upon closer inspection, she is sure he will scamper after 'having had his way with her' – as her mother would say it or 'having fucked her brains out' – as her brother likes to put it. Her father doesn't really have an expression to describe such things. In fact, James Caraway never mentions 'sex' – he calls it 'intercourse'. The matter is laughable really … well, if you considered his crude language most of the time-

"Rinoa?"

For some reason, her previous thought has disappointed her. She releases a breath that she has held for far too long as an elongated sigh. She had not analyzed the situation in depth before this and she finds herself regretting this leap of rebellion, it's like she's just jumped off a building. In love? Well, certainly not lust – she has the sex drive of a cold pancake; it's a little unsettling even, she doesn't know how on earth she's going to procreate.

"Rinoa!" Fingers snap right before her eyes and she jolts from the realm of her thoughts and back into the near-empty coffee shop, "Shit – don't do that to me!" He growls moodily and takes a long sip from his blue slushy. He repeats himself, clearly straining his moral values with every enunciated statement, "I'm sorry. Things got out of hand. I'm fucking stumped. This isn't what I wanted."

"Okay." There is a vacant look in her eyes that is killing him slowly, a switchblade stuck in his heel, being wriggled around – sooner or later, it will floor him. She is being incredibly uncooperative. Usually, women jump through hoops to get this kind of drama in their lives – is she just trying to make it last longer? Or is she entirely oblivious to everything? "It's not your fault." Well that was delayed. It's as if she had purposely made him feel like shit for two or three minutes before declaring his absolution. But no. She's far too innocent.

Innocent. It's a baseball bat to the stomach. He almost laughs. That's it. _She's far too innocent._

-------------------------

She comes into school with a stomach-ache. She's skipped breakfast, instead downed an acidic glass of concentrated orange juice. Her breathing is sharp. She feels ready to throw up. _What's the big deal? What's the big deal?_ She's not sure. But she knows that whatever it is, it's huge.

Corealie isn't here this morning. She had to leave early for a drama production meeting. There is no one to hold her hand. Squall is out of the question. There is something about the way everyone is looking at her. There are tears in her eyes. She's not sure why. Never has she felt so out of place. This is worse than being alone.

_Welcome to the planet  
__Welcome to existence  
__Everyone's here  
__Everyone's here  
__Everybody's watching you now  
__Everybody waits for you now  
__What happens next?  
__What happens next?_

She fiddles with her lock, dialling the wrong combo four times before pulling the darn thing open. It's a discreet seizure. She's convulsing on the inside, her eyes are ready to roll back into her head – she holds her breath now, she wants to pass out. To wake up three hours later in the nurse's office. To be put on medication. To let time go on without her.

This new world is not art – it's a nightmare.

"Well, can't blame him – she hot."

Pretends not to hear, looks at her schedule – it's not like she knows it by heart anyway.

"I bet she feels so full of herself now."

Shuffle books, mix papers – she refuses to exhale. She doesn't remember how. Her face is turning red, the corner of her eyes sting with salty tears.

"Ever seen her in gym class? Stamina of a lioness, if you know what I mean – _meow!_"

"He clearly lowered his standards."

"Oh shit, check it out!"

"Guys, shut up!"

"How are you doing?" A hand on her lower back, she spins one-eighty and finally breathes.

"Don't touch me." She snaps uncouthly, but only as a whisper. He immediately backs away and holds up his hands as if to prove his understanding. Seeing his chilly, serious eyes sedates her. "Sorry. I-"

"It's fine." Squall interrupts seeing a hint of incandescent tears. She may be naïve, but she is no idiot. He entraps her against the lockers, his two arms pillars on each side of her – her eyes grow wide, she gives him an odd look, "Calm down." He mutters under his breath, "Today's going to be a pain in the ass – just ignore everyone. Don't take shit from anybody." He hesitates, then dives, "Especially not Ashley."

"No one ever talks to me." She replies dryly, there is an edge to her voice that puts her sanity to light.

"Rinoa-"

"I think it's pretty arrogant of you to think they're going to start talking to me now." She never meant for the words to leave her mouth. Her lungs grasp for oxygen, nothing is working – access denied. The system is down. The heart is not pumping, the brain has shut off. The lungs. The lungs are dry. Withered. She is dying.

A direct slap in the face. He is used to being hit by women. Physically. Never this way. Never. He turns to the group of three onlookers on the left and barks, "Hi, can we fucking help you?" 'No, you can't.', a polite reply. They disperse. He has just been called arrogant by the only beautiful thing on the planet. He wants to kiss her, hold her, screw her. But then again, he always has.

"You're totally right." He murmurs - lies, letting his arms drop, "I have soccer try-outs at lunch … so I guess I'll only see you after class. Want a ride home?" She doesn't reply, only stares, empty of thought, void of hope, "Ok, I'll meet you here at four." He is so stoic. He is so strong. She marvels.

-------------------------

Chris snorts, pulling on his shirt, "Fucking little freshmen suck a lot of horseshit. Those kids are fucking blind." He picks up a hand towel from the bench and dries his hair. The boys' locker room is filled with an anxious buzz of competition.

Squall secretly agrees but refuses to give the prick credit, "At least they put power behind their kicks." He notes, unenthusiastically, "You kick like a fucking girl, Moyer." Chris gawks in silence as the captain unzips his bag and throws in his uniform, shin pads and cleats and begins to tie his shoelaces.

Maliciously, the defenseman turns something over and under his tongue until he finally spits it out, "Speaking of kicks, does she fuck real nice?" His voice is loud, obnoxious – it buries the other conversations. The room dwindles to a silence.

All eyes on him. Water drips from his hair onto his face, he grits his teeth, bites his tongue, draws blood, zips his bag – he cannot run. Fuck run, he can't even walk. His legs are lead; he swallows hard and looks Chris in the eye, "Yeah. Real nice. Like a whore." He swings his bag on his shoulder and stalks from the locker room, almost with a limp.

He hears the jerk cheering, "Woo! Squall's hit the jackpot – 'like a whore'! _And_ she's free!"

Storms down the hall, across the parking lot, opens the truck, throws his bag in and tries to let out a deafening howl – he has no voice left, saliva wasted on his left defenseman. He kicks the tires, pounds on the hood, tastes warm blood and almost feels forgiven until he closes his eyes and she appears.

Pathetic. Weak. Worthless. Piece. Of. Shit.

He thinks he has just thrown up a little in his mouth.

_I dare you to move  
__I dare you to move  
__I dare you to lift yourself up  
__Off the ground  
__I dare you to move  
__I dare you to move  
__Like today never happened  
__Today never happened before._

Needles pricking lightly at her skin – the eyes do not relent. They are merciless. They pierce. Stab. All at once. The cafeteria is almost silent, watching her eat. "Eat". She is not eating. She is playing with the ketchup on the edge of her tray. Her cousin is successfully attempting to act normal. Rinoa realizes Hollywood was made for Corealie Caraway.

"So, how was your morning?" She finally asks, after having recounting the never-ending problems with this term's stage production, innocently enough though her eyes bear hints of deeper water. Rinoa treads this, hoping to find a shallow end.

"Uneventful." She manages to lie through her teeth, avoiding the scornful looks from a table of cheerleaders. "It was so boring I nearly died." The joke is lost amongst the murmurs and the stares but Corealie still manages to laugh so hard soda spills out of her nose and she reaches for napkins to cover her shame.

Rinoa's promised stoical façade breaks lightly and she too cracks a giggle. Idiots. Losers. This is fine, they always were. The only difference now is that there are a five hundred pairs of eyes fixated on their every move, a hundred less fingers pointing them out. Nothing to be worried about.

Corealie recovers, manages to wipe the soft drink from her face and clear her throat. She goes to speak but is interrupted by the clanging of a tray next to hers and the slim feminine figure of a stranger slipping into the chair alongside of her, "Hi, Quistis Trepe, mind if I sit here?" The introduction and question are formalities that were clearly rhetorical.

Rinoa has an awkward vision of her being buried alive under macaroni and cheese. She feels her throat tightening. She is worried – how will the vomit pass through? "Sure." Corealie answers for her, though it's clear Quistis hasn't chosen this table for _her_ company. She's after the bitch who stole Captain Leonhart from Ashley – the million dollar prize, "Aren't you part of the cheerleading squad?"

"Oh yeah – I'm totally into gymnastics and so full of energy, it was like, destiny or something." Quistis gesticulates a lot, smooth motions with her hands like a ballerina only with more attitude and sophistication – the most awkward hybrid, then she adds almost disinterestedly, "And you're like, in the plays every year, right? You always play like, the most retarded characters." The blonde beauty giggles, her laugh is so high-pitched Corealie wants to stab her in the jugular.

"Actually, the proper Shakespearian term would be comic-relief. Even Romeo and Juliet had one of those." She's not quite sure what made her say it, and why she had to do it in that fashion, but Corealie looks shell-shocked at her cousin's pas risqué. Rinoa stops fiddling with her food and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest with her eyebrow raised. This is easy. This is bullshit.

Quistis lets a last muted snicker escape her lips and smirks. She rises from the table, picking up her tray (with but an Italian salad on it) and begins to strut away, that imperishable curve of her lips still on her slim face, "Right, well, like, I just wanted to drop in and say hi."

"And we're both very glad you did, honey." A slip of the tongue, if she wasn't talking she would be gaping at her balls – figuratively speaking, of course, "Drop by again sometime, when you can discern a little more than my shadow." Her intertwined arms are shaking, her mouth has gone dry, she can taste paper.

"Whatever, loser. Everyone is famous for fifteen minutes."

"In fifteen minutes, I'll be famous." Bullshit.

"Oh yeah?" Quistis sneers, turning around and throwing her tray back down onto the table. The eyes. They burn through her. She becomes immune to the radiation. The words, the murmurs. They freeze on her brain. She becomes immune to frost. In fact, Rinoa does not feel at all. Not anymore. Bullshit. It empowers her. Quistis leans over the chair and stares her down, "Why's that?"

"Do you like carbs?" Quistis raises a thin, penciled eyebrow - confused. Slam. The devil made her do it. It's not her fault. Quistis' face is plastered with sticky, gelatinous macaroni and cheese, dropping off in clumps. Screech. The devil made her do it. She was possessed. This is not her fault. The hand that grasped the golden locks of the cheerleader – it was not hers. The arms that forced Trepe's face into Corealie's lunch – it was not hers. It couldn't be.

It couldn't be. She ponders this still. Almost offers it as an excuse as she sits, stoic in the principal's office a mere twenty minutes later. "Care to explain the situation again, Ms. Heartilly? Ms. Trepe seemed very … upset."

"It's not my fault." Her voice quavers – her vision is blurred, fuzzed, like in a dream. Like behind a fisheye lens. Mr. Haddock's nose seems exuberantly large, his eyes far too small, his head is like the outline of a pear as he peers at her from behind his spectacles. He's not buying _this_. This ... this … _bullshit_.

"What do you mean, exactly, by that?" His voice is calm, but cold. Not exactly an inspiring tone to be confiding to.

"She asked for it." It's coming. Rinoa knows it is. It stings the corners of her eyes, it chokes her. She disgusts herself in hoping that it will be on cue.

"I'm going to have to call your father, Rinoa. You physically assaulted a fellow student – not in self-defence, may I clarify. This is not a joke. It is an offence. I'm hereby suspending you from-" She breathes. She falters. She cries. It comes as a whimper, and then slowly sews itself into a sheet of tears. She hiccups, gasps, laments like a whipped dog.

"It's not my fault, it's not. It's _not _my fault. Please. _Not my fault._" She takes in a sick, sharp breath of air and moans softly, "_Don't._ Please. It's _not my fault. Not my fault._ It's not. It's _not._" Mr. Haddock's turn to freeze. He looks around. Afraid of being caught bullying a student? A girl, no less. With an act like that, she could bring him to court. Accuse him of touching her. This has happened before. He knows. Women are full of malice.

He grabs a box of tissues from the corner of his desk and holds them up to her, "Alright, Ms. Heartilly – calm down." The principal becomes gentle. Exhausted. "I get the point, stop. Stop it. Calm down." He is waving the Kleenex in her face, forcing it upon her.

A few minutes trickle by, according to the clock on the wall, next to Mr. Haddock's teaching degree. Rinoa begins to exhale again. Her eyes dry but remain a rubbery kind of red – as fake as her tears. Mascara paths course down her cheeks. The principal stutters, falters, "I … uh, suppose, you have never violated school rules before. I will, uh, let this event slide by. But let this be crystal clear – don't do it again. Or I will not hesitate to expel you."

"Thank you." She whispers, gathers her things and stumbles out of the office. She wipes her hand across her face – she needs a mirror. Wait. Was that thought her own? _I need a mirror?_ Something is different. She turns the corner and finds Squall and Corealie waiting for her. The halls are barren. Everyone else has gone to class. Or almost everyone. Someone might be fucking in the janitor's closet. She wonders who. It feels like her business now.

"What're you guys doing here?" Rinoa asks wearily.

"How many weeks of detention?" Corealie asks immediately, "Did he phone your dad? Oh god, how many months are you going to be grounded for?" Her cousin hides her face in her hands and lets out a groan, "Do I even want to _know?_"

"He didn't punish me." The realization slowly seizes her. She almost laughs. _He didn't punish me. He didn't do anything._

Corealie peaks in between her fingers to look at her cousin. Even Squall bears a look of inquiry, "How … how the _hell _did you manage that? _Please _don't tell me you, like, bargained with hanky-panky."

"No. I cried. Can't you tell? I cried. A lot." Rinoa sighs and smiles, she's not sure why but it feels nice. She looks at Squall.

He's suppressing a grin. The shaking shoulders give it away. He laughs. Even leans on a locker for support. A girl that slams a cheerleader's face in a plate of cafeteria food? A girl that sobs so convincingly that Mr. Haddock exempts her from detention? Naïve? _Innocent?_ He was clearly mistaken.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Omgwtfbbq! Liek, 4real! 2day, i went 2 dee 7/11 4 foods. Ok, so I bought this exfoliating cream and my face is so fucking soft, man! Touch it! TOUCH IT! I should never be allowed near illusion-inducing chemicals again. Keep me safe … keep me safe, mommy/drugs

Now, children, gather 'round for I'm about to tell ye an epic tale. **I lied.** I'm actually going to explain the basis of literature, forgive my condemning, fallacious superiority for a short moment. When you read a book there are times where you will be offended at what you read, there are times where you will wonder about loose ends that the author never ties up. You see, if you are incessantly pleased with every situation in every book you read, it means the author is worth a certain **bodily elimination**.

I don't write to simply make you feel **warm and fuzzy **inside. I write to make you _feel._ Be it angry, appalled, frustrated, confused, but in some way – shape or form – moved. Now, there are certain things in the following chapters that will leave you questioning me, "Oh, so was it actually Squall who **did it**?" … Do not … for the love of sliced bread, DO NOT ask me these questions. Because, there is no answer other than the one you believe in. I want to write something that OTHERS can write thesis statements about, understand? I'm not here to make you 'get' every aspect of the story though I hope to incite THOUGHTS on your part.

I encourage your pleasing reviews; I encourage you to tell me what you really think of my characters (whose names are copyrighted to Square-Enix). Shoot out intense philosophies on their psychological demeanour – no one is wrong. Just don't tell me stuff like, "I really loved this story, up until the part where Quebec separated from Canada and Rinoa **started sniffing crack** because I'm totally against drugs." I don't CARE if you're against drugs, people still do them – and these characters are people. FYI: Rinoa won't start sniffing crack. Everyone just calm down. No need to panic. Just **CALM DOWN.**

Now, in my immense doubt that people actually read what I had to say: have a good day.

_Lyrics featured in this chapter: "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot._


	8. Chapter 8

"_**If everything seems under control, you're not going fast enough."**_

_-Mario Andretti_

-------------------------------

**Chapter VIII: The Deep End**

That rat told. She knows so with her new instincts. The little bastard told. But _what?_ What did he divulge so deviously, what were the words that punctured the hull of her vessel, sunk it slowly into this cold water? Rinoa tries not to deviate her eyes from the target, tries not to scan the tremulous ocean of doubt for a buoy, an anchor, an anything.

Brown eyes betray his lips. He's never kissed her with his eyes open before. She knows this because contrary to him, she always does. Rinoa wonders why it took her seventeen years to realize it's awkward staring at someone while you suffocate each other. Still. She doesn't look away. She practices this disturbing tight-rope act.

He didn't gel his hair today. But he shaved. God forbid he doesn't. Fuck, does he even _need_ to shave? She doubts it. Such a kid, it's revolting. "Hey, what's new?" A lot of things. But she'll never tell.

"Nothing too exciting." She lies. _Actually, I physically assaulted someone today and cried my way out of it, I'm failing my literature class and I don't care because my parents will never find out. I throw away all the evidence. Plus, I think I'm totally falling in love. And guess what, Matthew? It's not with you._

_And you? What's new with you?_

"Cool – you got work this weekend?" His fingers slip into her hand, search to intertwine with her own.

"Yeah, like always." She replies, pulling back from him, "Why? What's up?" They have a habit of speaking to each in soft voices. Whispers. Don't let anybody hear. It's our little secret. A fallacious attempt at romance, sickeningly sweet. Crystallized candy.

Silence. The overarching theme in this relationship. He opens his mouth as though to speak, doubts himself, stops, tries again, "Yeah, I don't know. Mike's worried about you." There. It was like performing the Heimlich maneuver. The problem suddenly projected from the esophagus lands a couple of feet away, coated in saliva.

"Mike worries about a lot of things that don't concern him." She has broken the murmur rule, "Honestly, it's a little bit annoying to have my boyfriend and brother hold a bi-weekly counsel to discuss my life." She's never been so bold. He doesn't understand. It doesn't matter, he never has.

"We just care about you, sweetie." His soft, supposedly-sugary voice calls to her, licks her ear. She hates it when he does that, "I don't want you to get hurt, you know?" No, she doesn't. Why can't she get hurt? Sex hurt. He didn't care too much about that, did he? Sitting in this stupid basement with the stupid television on sucks so much, it pains her greatly. This is the only place where they exist but he has the nerve to feed her this bullshit about how he cares?

"Yeah – I totally agree. It's a big, bad world out there and I totally can't handle it. So why don't you marry me, Matty-boy? I'll wash your clothes and make you supper, then we can fuck until we're blue in the face and have five kids and save dog from the city pound. Please. Protect me, since you _care_ so much." She snaps, vicious, teeth bared. This is it. Drama. Disturb the shit. Never has she seen such a stunned expression on his poor baby face. A toddler walks into his parents' bedroom, painted in midnight, because he's hearing strange murmurs, moans, grunts – he's confused, afraid. An untimely discovery.

_I love the things that we should fear  
__And I'm not afraid of being here  
__So much the same  
__It makes me helpless alone_

"Wha-"

"Yes, my sentiments exactly."

"Rinoa, your brother told me-"

"Oh, indulge me. What did my brother tell you? Or to make the list shorter, what _didn't_ my brother tell you – if anything!" Her claws dig into the couch. Monster. Madly in love with this. Monster. _You and me baby – it's just not working out. _Fuck that shit, she's got something way better now.

"You're seeing another guy!" Finally. Out with it. He looks ready to cry.

"Yes, Matthew. I'm seeing another guy. I'm seeing many other guys. I see them every goddamn day when I leave my house. My neighbor across the street is a guy. I wave to him in the morning – does that bother you?" Wait. What is she doing suddenly? This was not her line. Screw up. Cut. Take two. Nope, too late – that's a wrap. Sorry, make do. "What's your problem? If you want to know about _me_, you ask _me_. Not Mike."

Coward. She disgusts herself. That had come out all wrong. And she can't quite pinpoint a reason as to why. "I'll do anything for you." He whispers. She wants to puke. Lately, her gag reflexes are insane. That isn't attractive in a girl. He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, begging her with his eyes. She flinches at his touch. "I'm sorry, I just don't want to lose you." _Well, I want to lose you. Disappear in the dust. Pretend you don't exist anymore – what's so difficult about that?_

"I'm not yours."

He's not listening, "Can you forgive me?" His body leans into hers; they are corresponding shapes – fitting into each other with ease. She resents this but it soothes her. Like a Plan B, a fire blanket. He assumes the answer to the question, the self-assured little jerk. But she doesn't care. She's beginning to like where his hands are. What they're doing. How. She finds it difficult to understand.

And suddenly, she becomes "grown up" through this. Fallacious maturity beckons, seduces. She is not seventeen, she is twenty-three – but she doesn't know this, ignores it even. Imagined her whole life that this is what teenagers do. Open-mouth kisses and drinking games. The words "totally" and "cheated". Gossip and running mascara. She wants this. She must.

This lust will ripen her, then free her. Normalize her.

_You make me come.  
__You make me complete.  
__You make me completely miserable._

"I CERTAINLY HOPE you don't hold it against me – just looking out for yours truly, you understand." In fact, he's not sure he does but silence is always the winning answer – a weapon of mass destruction; rock, paper, scissors, silence. Plato's ultimate Form, Aristotle's God. The unmovable mover. Perfect in itself, it mixes with nothing else – for if it did, it would be tarnished and thus no longer perfect.

"I mean …" She picks up an apple from the fruit bowl on his counter and takes a bite, chews and swallows, "Can you imagine _me_ being dumped by _you_ for _her_? It just doesn't fit, Squall. Like, a nice plot twist – but overdone. I mean, you've seen the movie there with the ugly art girl? And Freddie Prinz Junior? Yeah – cute. But overdone. And Rinoa's no Rachel Leigh Cook."

"What is it with her, exactly – your problem, I mean?" Squall jerks the apple from her mouth and throws it into the nearby aluminum trashcan.

Ashley wipes her mouth indignantly, "Well, ok, like, don't get me wrong or anything – she's pretty, but how long are you honestly going to date a freakazoid?" Her drawn-on eyebrow is perfectly arched and the hands on her hips accentuate her attitude marvelously.

"Sorry, I must have missed something … remind me, why is she a freakazoid?" Squall glares back, crosses his arms and leans back on the counter.

To this, his ex remains silent. She gesticulates as if emphasizing a point they are both aware of, in vain. He doesn't get it. Finally, she surfaces, "She never talks. Have you ever met someone who never talks? And then slams someone's head, unprovoked, in like, a tray of macaroni and cheese? I find it freaky. She is like, a total sociopath."

"_Unprovoked?_ Are you fucking retarded?" Squall raises his voice, leans towards her. She remains silent, eyes wide. _Ironic_, he thinks – finding the 'Shut Up' button after they break up, "Just looking at Quistis makes me want to knock all her teeth out! This isn't a situation to find _freaky,_ it's one to find fuckin' hilarious and I'm just sorry I missed it!"

"Ok, like, _why_ are you defending her anyway?" Ashley retorts harshly, "You know you aren't willing to give up your Godly position at Riverside for a girl like her. And that's exactly what you'll have to do because like, Rinoa Heartilly doesn't belong in our intimate, selective circle. Can you imagine being like, an outcast, Squall? You? Honestly, you need this attention, don't you …?"

Squall remains silent, again – but he knows the battle is hers. Avoids looking her in the eye. Who knew she was so observant. Bitches are full of surprises. She corners him, for once, blondie has won, "You really like her _that _much? Ready to give up your power status for _her?_ I know you better than that, Squall. Are you actually going to try to mould her into one of us?"

"I think you're just scared you'll lose your spotlight."

"To who?" Ashley remarked starkly, "Rinoa Heartilly? Give me a break, Squall. Do you honestly think she's prettier than me?"

"Yes, actually." He shoots back without hesitation, "I'd fuck her over you any day."

"I find it sad that you need to lie to keep up your points." Ashley smiles, leans across the counter islet towards him. _If you think that's the case_, he shrugs. "Besides, if you're not careful, _she _might end up like, dumping _you._ How ever would you recover your teetering reputation then? You know she has a boyfriend?"

No. He didn't. "He's older than her. In his early twenties, I think – actually. I mean, he's like, got his whole thing planned out, Squall. They're getting married as soon as she hits twenty-one. She might not be sticking 'round for long, you understand." No. He doesn't. This is a new development he could have done without.

"You're just pulling these fuckin' color ribbons out of your ass, aren't you?" Snap, from the jaws of the lion.

She babies him, strokes his face but he pushes her away, "I'm so sorry, I really thought you knew – Rinoa Heartilly hasn't been single for the past year of her life. I thought … you guys had worked that out already." No. They hadn't.

"I think you're full of shit, Ashely." He holds onto her wrist, tightens his grip until discomfort fades onto her face, "And it wouldn't be the first time, to be perfectly honest."

"Oh, Squall – _really_." She hisses, twitching in hurt, "Please drop the bad boy act. You can maybe convince all those other morons that you're just too good for high school but you and I both know, that you've got no where else to go." It stuns him, his grip falters. Mustard gas. Nullifying all senses, he abandons vital functions to keep the pain at bay, "I might look like a total blond, you jerk but believe me, I'm sharper than you think."

Sharper than he thinks. Is this why her blade glides gently into him, carving away his flesh to expose his innards? A pinned frog, doomed to dissection. She is prodding at his lungs, his stomach with tongs. He can almost smell the formaldehyde that preserves this torture. "Well, that's good." Squall growls, infuriated with himself.

"It's alright to be like, vulnerable – you know?" He wants to twist her neck, watch her face writhe in the delicate death of asphyxiation. Vulnerable! He has been sculpting this image for years. As far as he is concerned this … 'vulnerability' which she speaks of has been omitted from his blueprint. Fuck her. Fuck her and her 'sharpness'. She can go to hell.

"I'm not _vulnerable_, Ashley." He barks back, "I'm just fucking different."

She smiles at him, mischief behind her mask, "Oh honey, haven't you heard?" Rock, paper, scissors, silence. "'Different' _is _vulnerable." He bites the inside of his mouth so it bleeds. Ashley sighs at his stoic response. "And your, uhm, 'girlfriend'? She's very, very different."

He grins sarcastically at her, enough to unnerve her perfectly rooted confidence, "You're just jealous 'cause you're not special enough anymore."

Ashley laughs hollowly, hiding her malicious intent, "Well, all things considered, sweetie pie – to her, neither are you."

_You make me come.  
__You make me complete.  
__You make my completely miserable._

HER ASSESMENT HAD been accurate the first time. Sex is awkward. But she can pretend to be totally into it. No one will know. Matthew doesn't. Matthew, who kisses her neck, breathes his eternal devotion. She wants to shove him off of her, ask him to leave. His skin sticks, his knee is digging into her thigh, his hands are shaking now – he's just way too excited about something this stupid.

"Matthew." She quavers pushing on his shoulders, "Matthew, get off." He knows it is time to submit to her desires now, though reluctantly.

"Do you want me to go now?" _Yes, now that you've properly 'filled' me like a Thanksgiving turkey, you may fuck off._ She is suddenly resentful of his conclusions, assumptions. What a jerk. "If you want me to leave, sweetie, I will."

"Yeah – well if you want to!" Her octaves follow a sinusoidal pattern, she resonates as Ashley. At first, this is scary. Then, comforting. "And apparently you do." She ventures. "Anyway, Mike is going to be home soon. I'm sure you boys will need to catch up." She feels around on the floor, begging to touch an item of clothing that belongs to her. Luck grants her the wish. She reaches for more; throws herself off the bed, half-dressed.

"Rinoa!" Her beau calls, hopelessly seizes her arm to keep her at bay a little while longer. He has never had to do this – he lacks the habit, "You …"

"What?" Amazon princess in unzipped jeans and a black bra.

"Are you seeing this guy or not?" His sad, brown eyes plead. A kicked puppy dog. Not a man. Maybe not even a boy.

"Yeah, I am." Rinoa snaps harshly, her own hard eyes flood disdain at such an impoverished creature – physically, mentally, spiritually inferior. Not even worth the kill. So she adds, words soaked in condescension, dripping from her tongue like poison, "And he's just a friend, idiot." She twists her arm away and strides to the door of her room.

"Rinoa – you're changing." Matthew calls, entwined – mummified – in her bed sheets.

"No, actually – I'm showering." Doesn't even miss a beat, her counter is snide and vicious.

"That's not what I meant!" He yells back but the slam of her door buries him. The boy sighs, runs his hand across his face and groans. _What's gotten into her lately?_

She is scampering down the hall, into the bathroom. It's nearly a relief to shut the door and lock it. Finally. Secure. Alone. Rinoa strips down again, leaving her clothes in a nice neat pile this time – as opposed to the sporadic layout of the garments merely twenty minutes ago.

Rinoa slides away the shower door and steps inside cautiously. She turns the hot water tap so far left a shriek of murder nearly escapes her throat when the first jet of fire hits the mark. Her body aches under, what is supposed to be, this cleansing shower.

The smoldering water steams the mirror but she still shivers.

She can still feel his fingertips on her skin. Imprints forever burned into her.

-------------------------

Midnight phone calls are something Rinoa's hardly ever dreamed of – something incredibly unintelligent and without a point; unless of course it's a police officer with unfortunate news of her parents' involvement in one of the greatest car crashes on highway twenty. But her parents don't get into accidents. They're far too prudent. Far too boring.

She wants to scream at him. _What do you think you're doing? Are you crazy? My father is going to kill me tomorrow morning – I'm going to die a face full of sunny-side up eggs, do you realize that's worse than dying naked? You're mental, aren't you? It's late! _But she doesn't dare interrupt his breathing.

He says he's called her up just because. Just because. Secretly, she thinks that is a beautiful reason. Romantic. She lets herself be cradled by impossibilities and soon, she is back swooning in full swing – his trespasses forgotten. Then he begins talking a lot about nothing much. Nachos, the Beastie Boys, anecdotes of pet-sitting the world's ugliest dog, how vodka tastes like Satan's asshole when you drink it straight up. She doesn't quite follow but she smiles because it's his voice.

On the other end, he thinks he is an idiot. He knows she is playing his silence card which most likely means she thinks he's totally off his rocker, mentally handicapped. There is no soul on this planet who holds more loathing for telephone conversations than Squall Leonhart and yet he dialed her number at an ungodly hour to chat up on how to 'fuck Coke or Pepsi, go for Mountain Dew'. Just to make sure she was still there. For him.

"I didn't call you for anything important, I'm really sorry. I'm not stoned or drunk – I'm a little bored, that's all." _And a little worried that you might be jacking off some other guy while I haven't even gotten to kiss you yet. That would make me feel a little unwell. Actually, I think I'd probably kill you. Well, maybe not kill you – but you get the idea, right? _"My parents are still out of town, plus – my sister is at my aunt's. It blows."

"Oh yeah – and they usually entertain you in the middle of the night?" Her first sentence, she asks it teasingly, like unwinding a ball of yarn in front of a growling lion.

There's a certain silence and she's almost worried until he gasps, "'She speaks.'" A pause, she's not sure what to do anymore. There is something odd in the way he spoke just then, "'O, speak again bright angel! For thou art as glorious as the night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds and sails upon the bosoms of the air."

A sharp intake of breath. "W-wow." She has Squall Leonhart reciting Shakespeare to her on the phone. At midnight. Life can _not_ get any better. And if it _does_, she thinks her panties are going to cry (to use Corealie's words), "You memorized that?"

"Nope. I was reading it from the book."

"Well, way to ruin important credentials, Squall." She whispers into the receiver, her voice quivering with fought-back laughter.

"Yeah, eh? Shit. I should have lied." The amusement echoes in his tone as he flips the book closed, "I'm a little royally fucked for that literature test we've got next week, by the way."

"And you are definitely talking to the wrong person."

"You want to study together tomorrow? I mean, we're both idiots – something good is bound to come from this."

She tells him, "I don't know … will Zell be there?" He acutely denies this and she says she'll have to think about it then. Conversing with him has become infinitely easy now that she feels that he, dare she jinx it, actually seems amused by her incredibly juvenile sense of humor.

After an amused silence, he promises her Zell will be there and that he's picking her up at noon. "Goodnight." And he hangs up. She doesn't have time to tell him she's working. At the same time, she's glad she lost the opportunity.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **It's difficult to get back into the flow of romantic fanfiction when all you've been studying for the past few months are Greek tragedies. At the same time, this may yield interesting results. Who knows? **Perhaps Squall will murder his mother and her lover to be thus chased by the Furies, while Rinoa gouges out her eyes due to an unfortunate prophecy from the oracle of Delphi condemning her to sleep with Caraway.** And start the flames, "OMG – I M TOTAALY AAGAINST KILLING UR OWN MOM & INCEST, LIKE, 4REAL!" Yeah, yeah, ok – time to take a chill pill. We've just emerged from the holiday spirit – who doesn't like pillow talk with their own kin?

I'm joking, I'm joking – don't crucify me. Tragic references to Aeschylus' The Oresteia and Sophocles The Three Theban Plays, respectively. I'm a scholar.

I'm sorry that there is no plot. Oh, look at that. I lied. Again.

_Lyrics featured in this chapter: Miserable by Lit. _

_Squall's quote from Shakespeare is actually from Romeo and Juliet at the ever-so-famous balcony scene – Act II, Scene II. Awww …so sweet._


	9. Chapter 9

"_**You can't blame gravity for falling in love."**_

_-Albert Einstein_

----------------------------------

**Chapter IX: Somewhere in Suburbia**

She begs, she pleads, she grovels, she whines, but averts offering a reason as to _why_. Thus, he refuses her until she reveals herself entirely to him. "I've never asked for a day off in my entire life, dad!" She screams indignantly over a bagel and cream cheese, "What's the big deal all of a sudden?"

"I don't know, sweetheart." He's hiding behind the morning paper. A dancing trail of smoke from his cigarette is the only hint that her father is actually there, "A strange boy calls in the middle of the night asking to speak to my daughter and I reluctantly agree because I am simply too fucking annoyed and tired to even consider uprooting the mystery. The very next morning, said daughter asks for the fucking day off work which, clearly stated by herself, she has never done. Try to mull that over without flinging your bloody Cheerios all over the walls, Rinoa. What _is _the big deal all of a sudden?"

"I'm not eating Cheerios, fath-"

"You digress, my dear, you digress."

"He's a friend!" She yells and slams her glass of orange juice on the kitchen table, sending spills of it flying onto his paper and eggs.

His holier-than-thou eyes peer at her from the top of the Suburban Post, which he proceeds to fold neatly into quarters and place on the edge of the table, "He's also a boy. That would make him a boy … friend." Caraway chuckles at his own jest, "Oh yes, I went _there_." He adds at her incensed expression, "Honestly, Rinoa – I wasn't born yesterday. Boys don't want to be friends with _girls_. They want to _copulate_ or _fornicate_ – I can never remember which is which - is all."

So _that _was his word for it. Fornicate. "Uhm, yes. Thank you, dad … that was … _enlightening_, thank you for sharing your vast knowledge of the world with me on this fine morning – can I just have the _fucking _day off work already?"

"Don't you _fucking_ swear at me!" Her father hisses, a mouthful of toast and yolk.

She drawls back sarcastically, "Was that supposed to be ironic humor?"

"Don't fucking start with me because you will soon find out that I am more than you bargained for, child." Hostility emanates from his eyes, daring her to take another step across the line. She remains quiet and this seems to please him momentarily, so he graces her with more words, "What would you do with your day then, should I grant you clemency?"

"I would study for a test that I will otherwise fail next week." She whimpers, wringing her hands in a pitiful attempt at a prayer pose.

The girl is clever, but she does come from her father, "Here, at home?"

She is taken aback having underestimated the analytical prowess of her parental unit, "Well – no." What a stupid thing to blurt like that. She should have just nodded her head like a good little girl with an angelic smile plastered to her face like a disease.

"_Aha_." He grins the most sadistic, cruel smirk – his lips curl unnaturally, accentuating his sharp, unshaven cheekbones, "Well, where else would you go then?"

"To my _friend's _house." She admits, guiltily, blushing gently underneath the pressure of his stare, "Is it that big of a deal? It's a study group, dad – lots of people. We wouldn't have the opportunity to _fornicate_, as you ever so vividly put it." To recover with a lie, how devious.

"Have you heard of orgies?"

Her jaw drops, eyes revolted that she is actually having this conversation, "Are you _insane_?" She cries at the top of her lungs and storms out of the kitchen, "You know what?" Rinoa calls out while she stomps up the staircase, "I'm going whatever you say, you can't stop me – you'll have to drag me to work!"

"That can be arranged." He assures her between two sips of coffee.

An hour later, he knocks on her bedroom door and pushes it open enough to see her, "I'll let you drive." He bargains, twirling the car keys around his index finger.

"Do you pay attention to me at all?" His daughter seethes back, swinging the door wide open and staring him down, "I hate driving, dad. I hate it. I don't know how many times I've told you, but I'll say it again: I hate driving." His eyebrow arches in surprise as she continues, "All I want is the day off, why is it this so complicated?"

Caraway chooses to remain silent for a moment until his reply is properly brewed, "It's not, sweetie." He pockets the keys and tries to look into her eyes but she downcasts them, "You've changed."

"I haven't _changed_." Her eyes return to pierce his, cold dirt meets cold dirt. "I've improved."

Her father laughs, smirks arrogantly, "Of course. Good to know you still have so much to learn. Have fun with Romeo."

The earth is lit aflame; her only retorts come from within her throat – coughing, a retarded kind of gurgle. He is halfway into the garage before he hears her shriek, "I can't believe you were listening, that's invasion of privacy, I hate you!"

-------------------------

When the sun plummets from the heavens and onto his beautiful, sculpted form, his hair glows a certain gold. Suddenly, he is the god Apollo. It wouldn't be that big of a stretch – now would it? _Click._ He is perfect. Even with his three-day stubble sitting on his sharp jaw line and his god-awful, downright messed up hair – today it protests the conformity of grooming standards, instead opts for a chaotic, gravity-defying torrent.

"Is that intentional?" She bites her lip hard, hoping the smirk isn't too obvious.

"What?" Sitting on the other end of the couch, one leg outstretched on the three-seater – almost touching her cross-legged position, he looks up from his notes – even his writing is unruly and slanted. Rinoa motions to the top of his head. His hand reaches up instinctively to smooth it out, "Are you making fun of me?"

_It looks like a bird settled down in there._ Her teeth sink deeper into her inferior lip and her eyes, searching for an exit, go back to tragic heroes.

"Hey, is _that _intentional?" A corner of his mouth is perked mischievously.

Instantly, she becomes nervous again, "Hm?" To her horror, he is pointing to her chest. Her eyes drop down and begin scrutinizing – which, she guesses, must look absolutely stupid. Well. The zipper on her sweater seems to have traveled further south than she had ever imagined possible. Quickly, she fixes the problem, "No. It wasn't." She replies, secretly wanting to die.

"That's tragic." He looks almost forlornly at the turned-conservative metal teeth, clenching together. "When Mr. Garrison asks me the definition of a tragedy, that's what I'm going to put on my paper: Rinoa Heartilly pulling up the zipper on her shirt."

She is almost aghast at his laissez-faire comments. How can he make such remarks when she has trouble saying 'hi'? _Well, Mr. Confident – two can play at that game. Maybe._ "He'll fail you. If that question is actually on the exam, he'll be looking for quotes from Aristotle's Poetics. Furthermore, why were you looking at my boobs?" Did she just ask that question? In those words? No, she is _seriously_ wanting to throw herself into incoming traffic now.

"Wha'?" His eyes are like huge brandy cups and his eyebrows are almost touching his hairline. It's like Saturday morning cartoons but he recovers fast, "I mean – why wouldn't I be? They look fantastic!"

"Oh my God." She throws her pocket-version of Hamlet at him and groans, "Shut up."

"In fact, I was wondering if I may-"

"No. You may not. Shut up."

"Just a sec-"

"Shut up. Shut up!" She progressively gets redder, and redder, and redder and his smug, satisfied grin gets wider, and wider, and wider until he actually laughs that stunning, sexy laugh and she is left feeling on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

"You know, most girls would just take the compliment and put down their zipper again." He tosses Hamlet back into her lap.

"I'm not most girls." She retorts while she fidgets with the books frayed pages.

There is a considerable pause where his eyes linger on her for perhaps more time than she was ready to allocate him, "What?"

_Some say love is not for sinners  
__I believe that isn't true  
_'_Cause when I was finished sinning  
__Love came down and showed me you  
__And you told me how to get there  
__So I tried to find a way  
__Then I ran into your garden  
__But I tripped out the gate  
__I tripped out the gate_

Squall sighs, rising up a hand as a flag of surrender "Man, now I can't even look at you?" And for no apparent reason other than the blessed god-given fortune, their eyes lock on each other. Mocha-eyes. Very appropriate nickname. He ventures softly, "How come I never see any guys duking it out for you?" But his stomach plummets, realizing he already knows that answer. Because guy A doesn't know about guy B and a potential guy C or … well – wait. He's assuming things again.

Rinoa has no idea what to reply. She thinks it's some kind of Squall-compliment, but she's not so sure. "Because they're nerds. They fight their wars in Warcraft and live-action role-plays." Oh, smooth. A _joke_. She surpasses her own expectations sometimes.

Suddenly, he looks ecstatic, "O-M-F-G! For real? Fear me. And by f-e-a-r, I mean p-h-3-3-r. God, I love those gamers. I bet you they're freaky in bed. With their crazy-ass vibrating joysticks? And their anime posters on the wall? Oh shit, man. I mean – I'm not usually into guys or anything but it's like those kind of people wear a 'plus three' sex appeal Carnal Ring or something." It is as if delusion possesses him a moment and she cannot help but gape at his ludicrous comments.

Still staring, she manages to ask, "Are you sick?"

"The doctor said I should seek a second opinion so there's still hope." This makes her laugh and he feels so accomplished, "So, _are _they freaky in bed?"

Rinoa blushes and rolls her eyes as though brushing it off, "Wouldn't know."

"Because of the gamer part or because of the bed part?" His white, gleaming teeth flash wickedly and for a split moment she is shell-shocked that he would even go that far. But then she wonders, _Why wouldn't he?_ In tandem with another question, _Why would he want to know?_

There is an outcry of dissent that spontaneously hits her as righteous, "How is _that_ any of your business anyway? What I'm wondering is which subject do you have anything left to learn about – the gamer part or the bed part?"

His lips contorted in a sneer, he says, "I don't mean to brag but concerning the bed thing … I'm an ace. But don't just take my word for it, see for yourself."

"Clever, Squall – did that line _actually _work on Ashley?" As soon as the words tumble forth from her mouth, she clasps her hand to it hoping to prevent further damage. She can't believe she let that one slip. _The devil made me do it._

On his part, he reels from the uppercut and can't help but have this devilishly idiot grin on his face. _Holy shit, she is one, big, motherfucking ball of fire._ And that horrified look on her face makes him feel _so bad_ but then her excuses are priceless, "Oh my God, I so totally didn't mean to say that – I'm sorry, that was really mean." The fear in her eyes reflect that of a dog being beaten by a newspaper and sent outside with a swift boot in the ass.

"No, no." He attempts to look hurt or at least mildly miffed but his wide-ass grin is just giving him away, "I understand that women often times like to avert questions and subdue their physical desires for a … hot, sexy, smart, funny, young guy such as myself. I accept your apology for your indiscretions concerning my previous sexual encounters. You were merely envious. I can fix that."

The worst part is wondering if he's joking or not. Because that arrogance looks 100-percent genuine. And he really pulled some vocabulary together for it. She flushes, rolls her eyes, "No. I'm sorry. This conversation is closed."

He smiles, so irresistibly cliché and tilts his head to the side, "Hey, Rinoa – does masturbation make you deaf?"

"What?" Brighter, brighter, next to bursting. She is a walking stop sign. And it takes her a moment to register but when it does, it feels like the slow and crumbling implosions of cute hamsters in microwaves. He looks so incredibly pleased with himself – or with her, for falling right into the immature middle school joke. Rinoa hides her face in both her hands and muffles a scream. She hears him laughing.

Impulsively, she grabs a cushion and throws it at his face, "You're so retarded!" She follows the cushion's path and crushes it further against his head, puts her entire weight onto it.

The stronger, leaner body is quick in retaliation. Squall grasps her wrists and pushes her back and onto the floor. He warns her, surrender! But still she twists and turns under his weight and he's straddling her so he's getting worried. "Hey, watch it!"

Lo and behold, the girl has more tricks up her sleeves yet! He feels a nice, strong set of jaws lock onto his knuckle and he curses at her lack of sportsmanship. As he lets one hand free it smacks into his gut rendering him breathless. Squall is knocked to the floor with compacted feathers enveloped in a cotton sheath and darkness. Inhaling fabric – not inhaling at all. Down and out? Squall Leonhart? Unlikely.

Grabbing her source of power, he wrenches it out of her grasp and throws it across the living room. Then the physically fitter alpha-male wrestles her to the ground, cuffing her – and this time out of reach from her sharp little teeth – and holding down the rest of her with the rest of his weight, "Well, isn't _this _a compromising position for you?"

_This must look so wrong. Oh my God, he's lying on top of me and we're panting - SO HORRIBLY WRONG._ Rinoa is mentally screaming at herself, _And I bet he is enjoying EVERY single SECOND of it._ "Ow, mommy." She whimpers in one, soft exhale.

He cackles, "Did you just call for 'mommy'?"

She tries to catch her breath and then whines, "Fine, you win."

"That was very unlike you. The physical accosting. If you wanted me this badly, you should have just said." Okay, last perverted comment on his part. He promises this to himself because he has gone overboard today.

"Oh, you wish!"

"Yeah, you're right." An admission he makes as his forehead is almost touching hers, his hair falling forwards into his field of vision. He feels her body go rigid as he leans a few millimeters closer.

"Nuh-un." Rinoa murmurs, turning her face away from his.

He nods, bites his lower lip and sighs. Sets her free.

_What're you doing to me?  
__I'm so into you  
__And the hardest part is knowing  
__That I'll never follow through  
__You're slowly killing me  
__And I wish it wasn't true  
_'_Cause I'm so into you …_

**

* * *

****Author's Notes: **I haven't updated in a while (and this is a repulsively short, plotless chapter) but I won't be so arrogant as to say people will come after me with pitchforks because the suspense is killing my ever so vast audience. Haha. I made a funny. 

So, I was checking my e-mail the other day and SWEET MERCIFUL CHRIST – reviews? 'But … but I haven't updated in FOREVER', I thought to myself. I started to read them and I figured I may as well give a shout-out to ScarredAngelft who reminded me that … uhm … Fanfiction . Net still exists.

And boy do I love – I mean, where else can I actually post such trashy, plotless writing? That's what I thought.

An aside: the amount of editing that goes into this story (and all my other works for that matter) is shameful. However, I regard fanfiction as … mere writing exercises, practice rounds. Don't take it as an insult because it is you, beloved readers, who offer me the best methods of improvement.

Lyrics featured in this chapter: Trip by Hedley.


	10. Chapter 10

"_**Men and women, women and men – it will never work."**_

_-Erica Jong_

**--------------------------------------**

**Chapter X: The Y-Chromosome and Its Match**

Oh man, oh man, oh man. It's funny, actually. He regrets it afterwards. He _regrets _it. That never happens. But hey, here he is – head in hands, going 'What the fuck did I just do?' But he feels bad. He feels bad because he thinks he's actually starting to like her. But shit. Would she ever cave? Did she even _have _a sex drive?

After the second time trying, she'd had a complete military shut down. Iron doors slamming shut and there was no way he was going to get in. Again. And hell, doesn't that piss a guy off? Doesn't he have the _right _to be pissed off? Blue balls can make a boy really, goddamn irate.

So he called Ashley. Ok. Not the idea of the year. But it happened. Oh, it happened alright. A couple of times. She must have been dry of action too – he'd never anticipated her willingness. But willing she'd been.

And was it worth it? Well, no. What the fuck is this after-effect of … guilt? It's not like he's married to the other one anyways. It's not even like they're officially going out. Hell, she has another fucking boyfriend, what's _he _feeling remorse for? Hard to say, really. Feelings are funny things – that's why he's avoided them before.

He could've just … but he doesn't want to think about what he 'could've just done' instead. He hasn't resorted to a porn magazine in like … forever.

"See? Much better than what _she's _got to offer."

"Fuck off, Ashley. Get out."

She's pulling on her low-cut shirt, "So I suppose you haven't gotten around to her pants yet, hm? I bet you haven't even, like, touched her."

"I'm working on it." He closes his eyes, lights a cigarette, inhales, relaxes. Just a little bit.

"Are you hoping it's virgin paradise or something? So you'd actually have, like, _accomplished _something with all this waiting?" Snickers, she's zipping up her jeans now – he can hear the metal teeth snapping shut. At least she let him finish first.

"She's no virgin."

"Oh yeah? That sucks. For you." Silence. She's on her departing note now. Finally. "How much longer are you going to like, wait?"

"What's it to you? You running out of business?"

Ashley clicks her tongue and stomps furiously to the door, "You won't lay her. Like, ever. She's just one big, fucking Ice Queen. And I'll make sure the school knows by Monday."

He's yelling at a slamming door now, "No one will ever find your fucking body if you do, Ashley!"

But Monday rolls around and he might be lucky or something because nothing happens. It's stagnant as shit. Not that's he's particularly disappointed. A thousand soulless bodies offering themselves as usual. Prostrating themselves before their one true God. That's him. Yeah, it's a pretty sweet deal.

Irvine grabs a mushroom-cut-haired kid and shoves him into a locker, "Get better glasses, four-eyes."

"What the fuck was that for?" He finds himself asking.

"Why the hell not? He should've moved out of my way." Squall rolls his eyes but doesn't reply. Sometimes, it's best not to because it makes them ask, 'What the fuck is up with you today, man?' And he's not in shape to be answering that question. Not even with his usual, 'Whatever'.

And even when he goes to take a piss he can't enjoy the simple pleasures of solitude. God. Urinating alone. Shouldn't that be a healthy requirement? Of all the luck, Zell pushes into the bathroom, "Yo, wassup?" He doesn't answer. Hope the idiot will get the point. And what a wasted hope it is.

"So, did you study for the lit test at all?" He unzips his fly, stations himself at a spare urinal, "Hm? Hey, man?"

"Zell, I'm taking a piss. Shut the fuck up."

"No, man, come on – this is like, guy bonding time." Squall finishes off, goes to wash his hands, "Did you study with Rinoa? Eh? Eh?"

"What the hell gives you an idea like that?" He can't believe he's actively participating in this conversation. With Zell.

"Aww, come on, man. Everyone knows you've got like, the hots for her." Zell is joining him at the sinks, "Ashley totally told everyone you called her name in bed, is that true?"

He stares at Zell in the mirror. "What?" And honestly, it's really the only thing he can possibly think of saying right now.

Shutting off the flow of water Zell wipes his hands on his jeans, "Ashley … she was telling everybody how you two got together yesterday and stuff. And that you called out for Rinoa when you guys were making like the bunnies."

Squall is sent toppling off the edge like some road-kill, projected from a shovel and into the huge dumpster of finished failures at life. A big, bright screen blinks. Game over. Game over. Game over. And this gives birth to lots and lots of anger. He shoves Zell against the grimy, white-tiled wall of the bathroom, "WHO THE FUCK IS EVERYBODY?"

Against the plaster and ceramic of 'i fucked ur mom' and 'stephanie e. good pussy', Zell pales lightly, "Uhm … I don't know, man. Everybody is everybody, why're you getting pissed at me, I'm just the messenger, man. I'm just the messenger."

"Shit, Zell!" Squall yells, kicks the side of the counter, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He slaps Zell in the side of the head, "Is the hamster still alive in there?" He points to his own head for emphasis, "Is it? Not drowned in excess water or anything? FUCK, ZELL! Hello? Is anybody IN there?"

"Yeah, man, okay." The blonde whispers softly, shrinking to the more physically fit alpha-male, "I just don't know what you want me to do."

"Shit! God, shit! What am I supposed to do now? Huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do? Now, now, the guys are going to rag on me about it… the … Corealie is going to rip my balls off and feed them to … like … puppies and unicorns and shit … and like, Chris … Chris is going to be a nice, big, motherfucker about it and like … _her_, yeah, _she's_ never going to talk to me again!" His arms fall to his sides and he turns away, still swearing and snarling.

"You could like … apologize and stuff, man, you know? Like … uh … if you like her and stuff? You know? And like … no one else matters, right?"

"Your hamster is dead, Zell. Your hamster is just … it's dead. Shut up."

"Okay, man. Sorry."

Squall takes out a cigarette from his back pocket, sticks it between his lips. Running his hand through his hair, he searches himself for a lighter, "Open a window, idiot." Zell scrambles up to push open a dirty, difficult window then rummages his own pockets for a lighter to offer. Squall accepts and the two boys lean on the different walls, smoking.

"Uh … look, man, I … gotta go. Good … luck and stuff."

He hears the swing of the closing bathroom door so he stands there. For an hour. Skipping class. Smoking cigarette, after cigarette, after cigarette until this one little stub is his last dosage unless he can high-tail out of here and now that he thinks of it, why doesn't he?

As those thoughts cross his mind, the bathroom door sways open to produce a flock of guys. And then suddenly, he wants to die. Chris at the head of the pack, they move in, "Well, well, well, if it isn't Mr. Squall Leonhart. Christ, man, you get more popular everyday."

"Yeah, sucks to be you." He stomps out the butt of the cigarette on the grimy floor, "What are you fellows doing here together? Come to touch up your make-up and jack each other off?"

"Shit no. We'd never go behind your back like that. In fact, we were looking for you. When it gets too dangerous, you hightail into hiding, huh?" Chris sneers and offers Squall another cigarette.

"What can I say, I like my thinking space. Oh, fuck. Sorry … umm … how can I explain this … you know, _thinking_ … when stuff goes around … in your head? Do you … sort of know what I'm talking about?" He doesn't take up on the offer, barely even glances at the extended hand.

Chris takes back the cigarette, slips it in the back of his ear, "_Thinking?_ Shit, man, what're you? A fag? Are you going to start writing nice poetry too? About how you want to fuck Rinoa Heartilly so badly but she just won't let you? That's sad, man, that's sad. You even lied to us about it."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Moyer."

"No, man, _you_ go fuck yourself." He shows Squall his middle finger, as if trying to prove a point, "God, you think you're pretty hot shit, king of the fucking universe, yeah – I'm surprised you haven't raped the bitch yet, aren't you entitled to it, Mister Personality of Riversi-"

Squall isn't even conscious of it. It just happens. The fist plummeting into Chris' gut. It just happens. "Don't push it!" As the words leave his mouth, two of his guys are on him, pushing him back against the dirty wall.

"Hey, chillax, man, chillax!"

"No, I'm going to kill him-"

"Chill the fuck out!"

But it's beyond that point now. Squall shoves the two boys off of him walks towards the door, "Next idiot with a smart comment dies. Is that clear?" Chris slowly looks up at him from the floor, breathing deep, painful breaths. The pack only nods slowly as the real leader storms from the bathroom.

Even through the door, Squall can hear Chris spit, "What a load of shit."

_Smoother than the L.A. weather  
__That's how he holds himself together  
__He is colder than the winter  
__I wrap my coat around to better  
__Counteract his charm attack  
__That leaves me hungry  
__Well, I'm no saviour  
__But I tried to save you_

It's awkward. Trying for once to get a sliver of what the great gossip is about this time. She's never really attempted such a feat before but now, it feels like her duty to know. Corealie finds her at her locker, staring deep into her messy closet of notebooks and loose-leaf, "So, guess what I found out?"

"Eric isn't taking you out for ice cream because he actually got lucky with Tamara, Jen and Marissa at the same time last Saturday and now you're angry and finally realize that he's a no-good sleaze-ball and you shouldn't waste anymore of your time?" Well, that's what _she's _been hearing anyway.

There's a silence. "Um. No, unfortunately, this concerns you."

"I certainly hope then, that it doesn't also concern Tamara, Jen and Marissa."

"Are you actually joking today, what is wrong with you? No, seriously. This is serious, Rin."

"Really? Are you really serious? That's good, because I'm seriously pissed off. I've had a bad fucking weekend, what do you want?" Corealie pauses for a moment; it's just like whiplash where you can't really help the lagging recovery time, "Yes, that's right. I just said 'fucking'."

"You're not going to be okay." It's mumbled, almost inquisitive.

"See, now, that's what _I_ keep saying. But no one believes me."

"Well, congratulations, Rinoa Heartilly!" It's like a total twilight zone as she reels around to narrow down where such a comment could have come from. She is wearing her lightly-streaked caramel hair up today, in some kind of complex bun-like style. The raven-haired girl almost wants to inquire about it but the fact that Ashley is even speaking to her is too weird.

Plus, Rinoa Heartilly is in no mood, "Huh?"

Ashley and the four divas behind her all robotically raise their thin, blonde eyebrows. Corealie nervously attempts to clear the dust, "She means she's unsure as to what you're referring to. Sorry, she's not used to speaking dumb broad. She was just trying to be polite, right, Rin?" The performer is not what she usually is today.

"Was that supposed to be funny?" Ashley smiles, biting her glossy lower lip as her eyes open wide, "That's too cute." She turns back towards the shorter cousin and repeats, "Congratulations. He's _really_ into you. In fact…" She pauses, the blow is coming "He actually wishes he was really _in _you." She giggles at the oh-so-clever pun and ventures on, "You _really_ should have heard him howl your name in bed yesterday."

"Who?" She is stalling really, to recover from what feels like a lead pipe smashed across her face. Almost touching the non-existent wound, she wonders why it's her stomach that's twisting and turning and leaping. Or why she doesn't taste blood but this awkward dryness that makes her mouth dead inside.

Ashley is blatantly staring now with a big 'what the fuck' across her face, "Are you stupid? Your boyfriend!" She puts air-quotes on the word 'boyfriend'.

"Yes, I'm asking which one. Which one nailed you?" She seems calm, collected. Seems. And in her ruse, she even manages to surprise the bitch. But she has no time to feel proud, even seeing Ashley with her jaw askew with nothing left to say yields no feelings of victory. Rinoa will be sick as _things_ crawl underneath her skin, peels her apart, she's even perspiring and feeling so small. So tiny. So insignificant. So betrayed.

"Squall Leonhart." Ashley manages to recover but her answer is uttered in an almost awkward reverence, "You are such a cock-tease." She speaks the last part with no malice, only strange admiration.

"Yes, I do that." Rinoa replies numbly, "I like … teasing … cocks. It boosts my ego. And I won't get HIV. So … it's like a double-whammy." Her improvisation fluids are leaking. She doesn't know if she should run into a bathroom stall to cry her eyeballs dry or if she's got enough energy left to pin-and-needle her way through the day.

But the pain is so real.

Corealie is beside her, her breathing shallow.

"Yeah." Ashley replies, "Well. Anyway, just thought I should like, let you know." It's odd. Seeing her kind of back down slowly, letting the mighty Princess drench herself in some sort of insecurity.

"Well, thanks." Rinoa almost whispers, "I sure appreciate it." She turns around, slams her locker and locks it.

"I'm sorry." Corealie mumbles under her breath, "I … wanted to get to you before she did."

"Not that it would have made a difference." And she can't believe what she's got next.

Funnily enough, he doesn't show up. He's missing the exam. Good. Hopefully, he'll even fail the class and have to take it again. Or something. But she may as well have skipped too. Concentration is impossible. And short essays? With quotes? It all requires thought. Knowledge.

Between train wrecks of thoughts, she writes. Bullshit but it's better than what's on Squall's nonexistent paper. And really, who's there to care when that bell rings? Amongst the five full pages she's written, there must be something worthwhile. Maybe. And she thinks the worst is over. That really nothing else can go wrong when she leaves the classroom and heads over to the caf.

It's like the curtain is slowly pulled to reveal a silent auditorium. She is the first player on stage so they await her, holding their applause until she is worthy. Fantastic. Soon, she hears footsteps on the wooden panels of the stage floor and she knows she is not alone. "Rinoa." Her name melts into the ambient noises, clacking of trays, mindless conversations that drift downwards to leave room for their dialogue. Is everyone tuned in yet?

"Hm?" Eye to eye with the enemy. Cobalt. Copper. Cobalt. Copper. Who is colder? Who is stronger?

"I need to talk to you." She's not sure what to make of him. He looks … a little more frayed than she anticipated. The rage flickers for a minute. If only for a minute. Then she sees her cousin rising from a lunch bench. _I don't need you, Corealie. Not this time. ' … and now you're angry and finally realize that he's a no-good sleaze-ball and you shouldn't waste anymore of your time?' Yeah._

And the entire world is watching them. She's on stage – she wonders how Corealie does it – and the audience is listening attentively. So attentively. And they know her lines by heart so one faux pas can turn those roses into heckles. She can slip so easily. Oh, so easily – onto her ass and off the stage, into the tearing crowd of people who want their money back. The freshly waxed floor is her bane. But the show must go on. She proceeds warily, "What do you want from me … exactly?"

He's getting a little irate now, "Well, _what _did you hear?" Running his hands through his mess of a hair-do. Gnawing on his lower lip.

"Umm. That you … slept with Ashley. And that you mentioned me. At some point. During that." Classy. Impressive that she can hide this sick feeling of treason so well. _You slept with her, you goddamn jerk? Why are you such a dick? If you weren't interested in me, why did you take me out to dinner and hold my hand and ask if you could kiss me? Is it just because I didn't want to? You're such a prick. You're such a prick, Squall Leonhart. I hope you get syphilis. _And all this with a small smile on her face. You're a wonder, Rinoa. Or a psycho.

"Well, it was a fucking lie." He snaps at her viciously.

She thinks about this for a silent moment. Then hesitantly, "Well … which part?" She finds herself incredibly clever so she grins and raises an eyebrow.

Which part? He hadn't thought of that one. It was only instinctive to deny everything. Of course he had slept with Ashley. The part about calling her name? He's not quite sure. But he _is_ sure she can tell how obviously he's taken aback. He can also hear a couple of snickers from behind him. _You little bitch, were you Ashley's fucking protégée or something? Did she fricken' spawn you?_ So what does he do? Wage a war on her? Ridiculous. "Does it matter?"

"Just a bit. _Just a bit_." She says and her hand demonstrates her point with the index finger and thumb barely apart.

"I want to talk to you alone." He's on repeat. Like a desperate idiot. Next thing he needs is flowers. And yeah, poetry.

"No."

"What?"

She stifles a laugh, "No. I'll call you when I feel like it. See you around, Squall."

Standing-fucking-ovation, bitch.

_Take back everything you ever said,  
__You never meant a word of it.  
__You never did.  
__She said "Alright, alright, slow down."  
__Oh, no. Oh, no. We won't.  
_'_Cause I regret every word that I said to  
__Ever make her feel like she was something special,  
__Or that she ever really mattered  
__Did she ever really matter?_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Say 'hello' to the worst chapter in existence. Feel free to consume and belch it back out in your reviews. It's very shameful.

I know there was something important I ought to say but … no.

_Lyrics featured in this chapter: "Charm Attack" by Leona Naess and "Slow Down" by The Academy Is._


	11. Chapter 11

"**_I am getting nowhere with you and I can't let you go and I can't get through."_**

_-Ani Difranco_

**-------------------------------**

**Chapter XI: Dead End**

So it's been a month. That happens, he thinks.

And he's been waiting. That happens too, he thinks. To everyone. People wait. They wait for pizza, the ATM machine. People, they wait, in a nice single file in the clinic, at the grocery store, amusement parks, concert halls. They wait for their turn, in line. There's a first, a second … countless, ahead and behind, just people, metaphorical numbers.

But there is no line. He's completely alone, staring at an awfully white ceiling. Waiting. For a phone call. There is no one before him, no one after. So really, it could ring _any moment_ and it could be risky to let the cell phone out of his sight. Even when he returns from the bathroom, he flips it open, fingers crossed in anticipation of a missed call. You never know, right? Yet, he is disappointed every time.

Sometimes, the Mortal Kombat ringtone screeches and seizures in his back pocket, his hand will leap to answer its call. But it's usually Zell.

"So man, wanna go to the arcade?" Yeah. He's been hanging with Zell lately. It's a lot more amusing than he'd imagined. Sure, the guy isn't the sharpest tool in the shed…hence the entertainment. Perhaps it's the dumb blonde's laissez-faire, 'who gives' attitude that does it. No one he's ever known ever enjoyed looking like an ass.

"I guess."

The arcade is still an awkward concept to him. A bunch of weird teenage boys wailing away at a Street Fighter machine as though it were life and this was a way of returning the favour of glasses, acne, braces and no sex. Zell is on repeat tonight, "Ha, beat you."

"Fuck it, man." Squall gives the joystick a last smack and turns away from the machine.

"You can not go against the master, fool!" Zell pursues, swatting the air with his fists and bounding about, "The amount of my greatness is immeasurable!"

"Too bad the amount of greatness you have and the amount of sex you get are inversely related." He drawls, heading for the exit at a leisurely pace.

Zell stops abruptly and sulks, puts his hands in his pockets, "Aw, man … that was low."

More often than not, they'll stop for junk food on the way back home. Turns out Zell has a fixation with the Beastie Boys but Squall makes concessions to accommodate him – even though the music grates his nerves. And he's a little uneasy to share his own musical tastes with Zell.

"So, uhm …" He begins it uneasily, a mouthful of hotdog and iced tea one evening, "Whatever happened to Rinoa?"

Funny, no one has actually ever said her name in a conversation with him before. In fact, no one mentions her around him. But they turn their backs, he knows and they whisper her name in excitement, _'Oh, really? I heard she was going out with …'_

Between two extra-long drags on a cigarette, he answers, "Who cares?"

_I do. I fucking care._

_I was your anger_  
_And you were my fear_  
_Now that it's over_  
_Of course it's so clear_  
_But you were no angel_  
_And I was no sin_  
_Somehow I can't let it go_  
_I can't let it go_

So it's been a month. That happens, she thinks.

Time goes by. You lose track of it, really. It's like a carousel; once you get on it's difficult to say how many times you've gone round. But she's got to admit she's enjoying the ride on her pretty, pink unicorn. It's a nice view and everyone's smiling here. It's the sticky sweetness of cotton candy at a carnival. Almost to a nauseating degree but she loves it. The sugar, it's addictive.

'Dumping' the captain of the soccer team in front of the entire school pays off. Actually, it hurts to even think about him. So she just sticks with the last part, 'pays off'. People notice her now – not that she'd ever even fathomed enjoying attention before. But funnily enough, people asking for her e-mail and cell number just to hang out sometime can do wonders to the feminine ego.

But she's learnt at least one thing of remote importance. It's not who you are, but who you make them believe you are. It's the greatest game of pretend. In fact, she doesn't understand why Corealie's having such a hard time with it. "Morality, Rinoa – that's where you and I have been differentiating a bit, lately." She's rearranging dresses on the rack with snappy, dry movements.

"Oh my God." Rinoa rolls her eyes from the counter where she is untangling the phone cord, "You're talking about it as if I'm going to hell."

"Uhm, hello?" Her cousin peeks out from a stand of the winter models, "You are knee-deep in hell, you're just like, too mesmerized by the pretty fires to realize your soul and mind are burning in eternal damnation." Corealie's hands are waving around sporadically, nearly knocking displays down. "You actually _like_ all these people licking your asshole like you were the second-coming of Christ? 'Oooh, Rinoa, your hair is _so_ soft – what kind of shampoo do you use?', 'Ohmigosh, you _totally_ have to come this Saturday. We always need a girl with attitude! Teehee!' Even Ashley's starting to move out of the way for you."

Rinoa is almost choking with laughter as she replaces the receiver into the cradle, "What _are_ you? Jealous?"

Corealie seethes, "No. Just wondering where the hell my best friend went!" She stops fiddling with the dresses, squeezes past the crowded aisles and stomps to the counter, "You haven't spoken about Squall at all – and don't expect me to believe you're actually over him. You don't give two shits about _their_ interests, you just like to hope that _he _might be paying attention too."

"How bold of you." The sardonic response leaves the corner of Rinoa's mouth twitching as her eyes avert from her cousin's.

"Yeah! So damn bold there's no room to read between the lines." The older cousin snatches a stray catalogue from the desk and throws it onto the towering pile in the corner near the phone, "So come on, 'fess up, Rinoa. You honestly think he'll come back on his hands and knees? You didn't give him much of a shot at it."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She turns around and throws her arms up questioningly, "He didn't really give _me _much of a shot, did he?"

"Maybe, if you hadn't been such a frigid bitch-"

"Maybe if he had been willing to wait!"

"Or, or how about – maybe if you had actually broken up with Matthew instead of keeping him as a safety blanket, you wouldn't have had such a guilty conscious when you were with Squall."

There is a silence filled with hot contempt, "Did you _tell him_?" She's getting the insults mentally ready. _Bitch. Whore. Cunt. I can't believe you'd …_

Corealie smirks, "Tell who what? Tell Matt you were seeing Squall? Or Squall that you were seeing Matt?" A signature dramatic pause and then, "Who the hell do you think I am? Good to know you have so much faith in me. No, really. I'm like, honoured. But hey, good thing you kept Matthew around or else you'd be pretty screwed now, huh?"

"Do you think you're _funny_ or something?"

"No, I think you're funny. I think you've become just one big joke, Rinoa."

And that's just the end of it. They don't speak to each other anymore. If there were ever a line that was not to be crossed in their friendship, that would be it. Rinoa hangs out with 'new friends' now and even though her laugh is as hollow as ever, she still manages to pull through.

She still doesn't talk much, but they ask her a lot of question, "Between Orlando Bloom and Chad Michael Murray?"

"Probably the latter."

"The what? The ladder?"

"I meant Chad Michael Murray."

Then they all agree, maybe because they don't want to offend her, or maybe they actually do like that one better. And then they're all trying to find people everyone knows to compare and contrast, a bunch of squealing girls coming back from the mall and piled in one's father's car. Borrowed.

"Ok, ok, how about … Chris Moyer and Squall Leonhart?" The one with fuchsia nail polish and Dior sunglasses asks.

There's the rarest of silences in the vehicle as all the girls all think of their answer and think of it hard. The answer is unanimous, "Every time Squall Leonhart looks at me, my panties cry."

Then they stare at Rinoa, who's pretending to look outside the window. If she needs prompting, that's taken care of quickly, "Helloooo? What's _your_ answer?"

"Huh?" She snaps back to attention, "Uhm." It's like they all lean in to her at the same time to hear the answer perfectly. Rinoa breathes, dares, "Chris Moyer."

"What?"

The driver isn't even looking at the road anymore – that can't possibly be safe. But she answers, cool as ever, "No, I'm serious. I would totally go down on Chris." _What are you talking about? You've never 'gone down' on anyone in your entire life. _"I mean – what's the difference between Squall and Chris, really? There practically _is_ none except that Chris is evidently a better soccer player."

"He … is?"

"Squall hasn't even showed up to the last few games."

"Wow, really? I like, totally can't even tell who's on the field with their helmets and stuff."

"No, you're thinking about football."

"Oh."

As the car pulls into the driveway, she opens the door and slips out of the seat, "Yeah, so, see you guys around …" And the funny feeling is the clinging hope that no, she doesn't see them around ever again. Because she's exhausted – her face inwardly twitches every time she forces a smile, her laugh is no longer a laugh but more of a 'ha-ha' and she hasn't spoken to Corealie for two weeks straight.

And all this unkind water leaks into her ship when she's alone. All this unkind water slips between the cracks and comes on, stronger and stronger. She's sinking. As she flips the glossy magazine pages and doesn't read the words. She looks at the pictures. Pictures she would love to take.

But she's not holding the camera anymore. Is that good or bad?

And is this good or bad? This strange surrender as she rings the doorbell and stands face-to-face with some sort of foe who's dared ask her once before, 'Why?' – and that's an unfriendly question. "Hi." She whispers, looks at the ground. Really. Pitiful. That they can't even look eye to eye anymore.

"Took you long enough."

Rinoa scowls, "Okay, look, Corealie – I don't know who ought to be more ashamed, the one who's admitting she's wrong or the idiot standing in the door with the smart comments." Her eyes accidentally lock in with her older cousin but maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it will keep the door from slamming in her face just a little longer, "I came to apologize."

This seems to stroke Corealie in a friendlier way, "Oh yeah?"

"No, actually, I lied – I came to tell you that you're a completely, totally over-protective, controlling whore and I want you to lay off on your analysis of my life because I'm really sick of it." Rinoa stares at the flabbergasted expression on Corealie's face and almost laughs, "I was being sarcastic. In a completely honest way, though."

Her cousin scoffs and puts her hands on her hips, "Yeah? Well, that's fine. But don't pretend you're completely over him because _that's _a lie and if you don't tell him, I will. I told you that no guy is too good for you – I didn't mean you were too good for them. So don't even _bother_ trying to hide it anymore, he-"

"I won't." Rinoa pitches her cards, square in Corealie's face, though hesitant she may be, "I was actually going to ask you for a ride to his place now."

_And half the world is sleeping_  
_While the other half dreams,_  
_You close your eyes_  
_And then you're gone._  
_And maybe my intentions_  
_Have been misunderstood._  
_I know you feel so_  
_Beautifully wronged._

It is an impressive house – she remarked that the first time. The stone-bricks are a cold slate color that kind of fade against the immense, cherry-black door. The one she lightly raps the knocker against. She remembers Squall telling her, _"Fucking idiots who wail away at it like they think we don't hear – it's a lot louder than most would think."_

She hears the click of the lock being released so she breathes deep. Very deep. Maybe if she holds her breath, this frame will freeze and this will be the end. But things don't even slow down for her and the gate gapes open, like a mouth ready to close around her and she can only imagine the teeth grating down on her fleshy body.

Instead, Rinoa is looking down on an adorable little brunette about three apples high. "HI!" Sabrina shrieks and bounces as she does so, "How come you know where I live? This is so cool! Did you come to play with me?" Her tiny twitter echoes in the white-walled, entrance turret.

Rinoa smiles and feels an awkward amount of warmth flush her face, "Hey, I came here before but you weren't home." There aren't cramps in her face yet and she's actually showing teeth, "I was _very_ disappointed! And I actually came to talk with your brother but maybe we could play after?"

"Squall is a big, fat jerk today!" Sabrina protests, her face falling into a pout, "He said he'd take me out for ice cream last night but he woke up in a bad mood today so he's fixing his stupid car and no one else is here." She plods out of the entrance, "He's in his stupid garage."

Cautiously, she follows the child through somewhat familiar hallways. Sabrina walks trying to keep balance on an imaginary line, with her arms outstretched to help her. Once near the garage, she softly slides her hand on the closed door, "Have fun with Mr. Meanie." She turns around and puts a hand on her heart, "Promise you'll come watch the Spongebob movie with me after though, 'kay?"

Unsure whether or not this is wise, Rinoa replies reluctantly, "Okay, I promise."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die." She repeats solemnly, tracing an 'x' across her left side. Sabrina skips off happily, squealing something about getting the DVD ready and the raven-haired girl stares at the door. She can hear him tinkering away.

Another deep breath. She's going in.

The garage reveals itself to her as she pleases. It's comforting – this control. She basks in it, knowing what a slippery slope it will be after the door is done opening. He is hovering over the open hood of the Jeep, wearing a white wife beater. His bronzed arm-muscles are cautiously pulling something out. He's checking the oil, his back to her. "Did you bring your jack?" He asks dryly.

"My what?" It slips out before she's even got the chance to think it over.

It's like sticking his finger in a socket or getting caught in the Christmas lights when they're on. She was not the voice that was supposed to answer. He drops the dipstick as he spins around, _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! _"FUCK!" A nice neat line of brownish oil is now smeared down his shirt and a bit on his jeans, "What the hell are you _doing_?"

"Wow – what is your problem?" She asks harshly and wonders if she's visibly shaking … maybe it's just something in her head. There is a pause. Maybe he doesn't know what his problem is. Or maybe it's _not _just something in her head and she's actually _convulsing_. "I just came to talk."

"You're one of those girls that no guy ever wants to meet in a bar." It's like a gift from Heaven and yet he's standing there, dirty and pathetic, saying 'No, thanks'. "I mean, the guy takes you home and then you tell him you're on the rag so you were thinking you two could just talk."

Her mouth hangs open slightly, wondering how far a wrench could fit up his ass, "I'm sorry I'm not a slut?"

Silence. He bends down to pick up his dipstick which he wipes with a paper towel, turns around and begins playing around with the truck again. Maybe she's crazy, but she feels a certain satisfaction in knowing he's got nothing left to say. Instead, he throws a few words recklessly, "Took you long enough."

"Why are you acting like _I_ was wrong?"

"Rinoa!" He yells her name, slams the hood back down, violently, "Do you think I'm proud of myself?" His arms are outstretched in a 'what do you want from me' fashion that she finds almost intimidating – what _does _she want from him? "Fuck, if I could take it back, I would. But if _you_ could take it back – would you give me a few hints as to where you're leading me?"

"I wasn't leading _you _anywhere, I was _following_." Somehow, coherent replies seem so much different than her usual puppy-whine and hide-in-corner art of war.

"Oh, is that right? Can I even touch you without having you shudder like I've got a disease?"

She grabs his wrists and pulls his hands down to his sides. They're standing much closer now than she had anticipated, "Look!" She hisses, "I'm touching you, is this what you wanted?" He doesn't answer, "There's a difference between shuddering and _trembling_, Squall. You usually _tremble_ when you're scared – I wonder if you know what that means – but believe me, it's not that hard to be scared shitless of _you_."

Her hands slip from his wrists and down to his palms. He's so warm. "What are you talking about?" Gently, he pushes past her fingers and sets his hands on her waist and she's faced with the dilemma of not knowing where her own hands are supposed to go now. So she rests them on his chest.

And can she really help it if she's quivering like a wet rat on a winter day? "Why the fuck do you do that?" Squall asks, gently this time, which she supposes helps matters a little more.

"I just explained that."

"What do you think I'm going to do to you?" _Well, you might make me fall in complete and absolute love with you and then break me into a thousand pieces._ She doesn't say this of course. She doesn't say anything. Squall leans in closer and she can kind of smell a mix of aftershave and fuel on him. Almost like leather, sweat – that boy smell, "You going to tell me to go fuck myself again?" He asks, almost nicely, as his lips hover near hers.

"Third time's a charm."

But hardly because as soon as he gets a millimeter closer, the garage door swings open with a kick of the foot, "Hey, man, I got your ja-oh, daaaaaaamn …"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **God, this chapter was a bitch – but infinitely better than the last. I need to work on setting hardcore.

Lyrics used in this chapter credited to the Goo Goo Dolls – "Can't Let It Go".


	12. Chapter 12

"_**Everything is funny as long as it is happening to someone else."**_

_-Will Rogers_

**--------------------------------**

**Chapter XII: That's Awkward**

'Oh, damn' is right.

Now, Squall is flustered, frustrated, everything. Torn. How long had he been pining after _this_? He could slaughter Zell. Run after him with a rake and not stop until he had dug vertical lines through the idiot's flesh. But. He remembers how he had bragged to Zell about how there were plenty of other good-looking ladies out there. Better-looking ladies. Big breasted ladies. Willing ladies.

And here he is, caught with the one he had fiercely slandered.

Oh, damn.

"Well. Uh. Right." Zell coughs gawkily, stares at the couple standing suddenly so rigid on the cement floor, "Oops." He stumbles from the garage, slamming the door shut and if only that were the end of it.

But no.

They can hear him on the other side. He's _laughing_.

Rinoa draws herself from Squall, her head so hot she imagines a big, fat, baked potato on her shoulders, wrapped in shiny tin foil. Immediately she buries her magenta face in her hands and lets out a pained groan.

Squall is in no position to be comforting anyone, really. So he shoves a hand in his pocket and massages his temple with the other while trying to remember to breathe.

This moment is interminable and insufferable – the kind of hot, humid air that presses against every square inch of their skins, compressing them, sticking to them. Hit over the head with a metaphorical shovel, pins and needles in their brains. Rinoa rubs her face and then begins nipping at her fingernails.

The door opens again and Zell staggers in, breathless, "Ok, ok, ok – I'm _sorry_." A wheeze and then he's back on the funny wagon, clutching his abdomen and folding himself in half, "Oh, God. Ok." He snorts, gasps, "Both of your faces. Are priceless. _Priceless_." He cackles and leans on the doorframe, "I can only imagine what it'd have been like if I'd, like … come in a few minutes later where you'd _really_ have something to be embarrassed about."

That does it. Squall's hands are fists at his sides as he stalks towards Zell.

The blonde cowers and squeals as he sees the imposing figure on a warpath, "Hey, man … not cool! I said I'm _sorry_!"

"Oh, I know, I'll just _make_ you _really feel_ it." His deep voice is nothing but a low rumble, a lion's growl.

-------------------------

Amidst the wafts of hot oil, a sterile scent clings to the air. The tiles have a slippery sheen to them, but Squall's decided stride does not falter. He clangs two trays on the table and sits down next to the raven-haired girl who still seems to be uncomfortable. Christ. _That _was hours ago.

"Is this a Happy Meal?" Sabrina asks as she leans into all the other orders to grasp a paper bag in her tiny hands.

"No." Squall barks back, "It's a Sad Meal. Look how fucking sad it is."

Rinoa and Zell simultaneously stifle a laugh – only it doesn't work out so well for Zell. He gargles and coughs instead. Squall shoots him a deadly, simmering glare, "And I don't remember agreeing to buy lunch for _you_. You owe me ten dollars."

"Man, _lighten up_! I already said I'm sorry about a thousand times. I'm sure you and Rinoa can make further appointments to finish-" A half-eaten fry hits him in between the eyes – he can see Miss Heartilly is no longer amused. Just before falling silent, he mutters under his breath, "I'm announcing it on the school's P.A. system tomorrow."

Meanwhile, Sabrina sulks in her corner, "Aw, I got a Patrick toy." She sighs and grudgingly begins nibbling on her chicken nuggets, "Squall, can you go ask the lady for another toy?"

"Blow me." Squall pops open the carton of his quarter-pounder.

Rinoa gawks and reprimands, "That's not a very appropriate thing to say to your younger sister." She's not quite sure why she had to say that, and in such a prissy manner too.

Cutting into an, 'I'm going to tell mommy', his reply is quick and sharp; "Would _you_ rather blow me then?" The look on her face immediately flags him down for inappropriate conduct. He's gone too far. "Okay, forget I said anything." He grabs Sabrina's toy and rises from the table.

Seven minutes later, he tosses a Squidworth action figure into her chicken nugget sauce and sits back down grudgingly.

It takes a moment but eventually, Zell begins to make sound effects. "_Wha-tisssh. wha-tisssh!_" Squall looks sternly at him but Rinoa doesn't even glance at him, "What, man? It's true. So, when are you two going to be official?"

No answer.

-------------------------

"You didn't even kiss him." Corealie repeats dully, staring almost blankly into Rinoa's face, "You didn't … even … kiss him." Rinoa rolls her eyes and turns to rummage through the locker crowded with calculus notes and the few textbooks she's never even opened, "Ok. You didn't kiss him. You haven't kissed him. You have not kissed Squaaa-Steven." She blurts the cover name at the last moment as two sophomore girls strut by with their long, thick hair – clearly extensions.

"That's right." Rinoa snaps.

Corealie nods more energetically and waits until the other two are out of earshot and then hisses, "Why not?" Rinoa just gives her a look – one with eyes half open, chin jerking upward in some sort of 'Give me a break' fashion. "What, were you afraid your hymen was going to rip itself open like a Ziploc bag if he put his tongue in your mouth?"

Rinoa slams the locker door shut and glares at her cousin, "Corealie – we need to talk. See, I'm not really sure I feel comfortable talking about my hymen with you." Then, stepping out of sarcasm mode for but a slight instant, she adds, "What is it with you and sex? What is it with _everyone_ and sex?"

"Well, to people who aren't intimately frigid – like you – it's a great desire to quench once in a while." Corealie retorts slightly defensive, slightly annoyed.

"Un-huh, and have _you _ever 'quenched' this 'desire'?" Rinoa clicks her tongue and asks coarsely.

The older cousin looks back reproachfully, "Yeah, well – once. Sure, it sucked but first times always do."

"Well, I hate to break it to you but second times aren't that great either." There. She's said it, "Sex is overrated – get over it. I did." And apparently, she's said it a little too loud. A few people stop, look her over and begin walking more slowly hoping to catch more the conversation before they round the corner.

Corealie's eyes widen and she hits Rinoa over the head with her paperback Wuthering Heights, "YOU NEVER TOLD ME!" The younger cousin screams in incredulous protest, causing every pair of eyes in the hallway to turn in their general direction and watch the scene unfold. The audience is no longer discreet.

"Are you boxed out of your mind?" Rinoa hisses at Corealie and jerks the book out of her hand, opens the locker and chucks it in. She rubs her head bitterly as Corealie resumes her rant.

"I tell you _everything_!" Corealie crosses her arms and stares at the row of lockers, and adds in a hushed tone that makes the onlookers feel like voyeurs, "You're my best fucking friend and for some stupid reason, I thought it was mutual." She grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder and walks off.

_'I thought it was too.' _Rinoa sighs and shuts her locker. The people around her begin shuffling again, and she rolls her eyes at a group of freshmen still staring at her, "Get a life." She mutters through clenched teeth, half-hoping they will hear her, half-hoping they won't.

When she crosses Corealie in the library during a study break, Rinoa grabs her by the arm and shoves her into the anthropology aisle, "You had to pick the dustiest section, huh?" Corealie looks disgustedly at the cobwebs hugging the corners.

"Are you ever going to shut up?" Rinoa demands, hands on her hips.

Corealie looks at her, now defiantly silent. Rinoa continues on, ignoring her cousin's constant display of attitude, "I think I've been dealing with a lot lately-"

"And I'm just getting on your poor, little, sensitive nerves – is that what you were going to say?"

Frustrated, Rinoa snaps, "No, it's not you, it's that I'm technically supposed to be dating my brother's best friend, it's that suddenly everyone in this school knows my name, age, birthday and blood type _and _it's also these goddamn underwear that are riding up my butt and I don't why I could have possibly thought them to be a good idea this morning." She takes a breath.

Corealie stares for a moment and then begins to articulate slowly, "Rinoa – are you hearing yourself?" She crosses her arms and continues in a hushed voice, "You're blaming your shitty attitude on like, a pair of underwear. You don't care about Matthew, you don't care about the attention. You only want one thing that you're too scared to have."

"Stop making assumptions!" Rinoa's command rises above the expected library volume.

"Making assumptions?" Corealie replies incredulously, "You even wore a _thong_ for him!" And with that she was off, ploughing through the library and out its doors.

Insulted, Rinoa's bitter eyes fixate on the spine of a book that reads 'The Y-Chromosome' and she mutters, "It was so _not _just for Squall …" Sadly, she doesn't even manage to convince herself.

-------------------------

That afternoon, Squall unlocks the Wrangler in the school parking lot as a rain of golden leaves fall around them, "So Mocha-eyes, this week wasn't too bad, right?" The leaves are wet and stick to his windshield. He reaches over to push them off.

She doesn't answer the question, only remarks, "Well, we didn't see much of each other either." Squall looks at her grinning and shaking his head. She smiles back and opens the passenger door to climb in. As she does, she's reminded of her distasteful choice of undergarments.

She feels intensely self-conscious, it takes her entire being to restrain herself from looking over her shoulder and trying to catch a glimpse of her butt – I mean, you can't tell a girl's wearing a thong just by looking, right? Right? She's not so sure. Maybe there's a foolproof way of noticing, maybe that's why people's eyes lingered on her a little longer today, as she was walking down the halls. Oh God, what if _he's_ noticed too? He must be an expert on discerning female lingerie underneath low-cut jeans.

Squall snaps her out of a paranoid trance with a light-hearted joke, "Yeah, I don't think anyone's ever seen me spend that much time in the library after school hours – the librarians are probably getting suspicious."

They've avoided being seen together. As far as Riverside High is concerned: Squall and Rinoa are leading their separate existences. Which suit the both of them fine. It is as if both have borrowed characters. Today, they both found excuses to stay behind at school an extra hour in order to not be seen leaving together by the weekend exodus of students.

Rinoa buries herself in silence in order to avoid blurting out how ridiculous this all seems. Or how incredibly awkward it feels to be wearing a thong – and will she ever put that godforsaken thing out of her mind? Squall … well … no one can really fathom what Squall is thinking. Or if he's thinking at all for that matter. He doesn't seem like the thinking type, she decides.

An hour later she sits on the hood of his car, watching him throw pebbles off the cliff overlooking the expanse of suburbia. A million different coloured roofs, three out of four with a teal bean shape in the backyard – swimming pools. It's interesting, the way he stands confidently, feet apart and his right arm swinging towards the slowly descending sun. _What are you aiming for?_ She wonders but doesn't dare ask. A guy who stands at the edge of an overhang and throws gravel at Riverside definitely isn't the thinking type.

He looks down at odd shaped rocks in his hand, tosses them around and finally drops them to the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans. Squall turns back to look at her, "Wanna eat?" They've picked up a few sandwiches from the corner store.

Compared to their first date, this is the most unromantic thing she's ever done. Except, she thinks, except maybe for the sunset. She smiles and shrugs, "I guess." He hops onto the hood next to her and fishes into the brown bag up against the windshield procuring two turkey sandwiches.

"Soccer game next Friday, you going to be there?" He mentions absentmindedly, pulling off the plastic wrap and crushing it into a little ball.

"I guess." She grabs the second sandwich from his lap and begins to unwrap it.

He pauses for a moments, stops chewing and looks at her. He swallows and then, "You going to take off some clothes for me tonight?" His focus drifts back to the outlaid suburbs.

There is a smile at the corner of her lips as she replies, "I guess."

"Good stuff." He answers back in all seriousness without even glancing back at her. She rolls her eyes but doesn't answer. Five minutes pass in silence until, after the last bite of his sandwich is ingested, he grabs her left foot and pulls her running shoe off, "Wow, Rinoa. That's sexy. Do it again."

"Hey!" She squeals and tries to free her leg by kicking, to no avail, "Let go!" She can't help grinning despite a constant fear of how far he's going to go. Through the confusion, she drops her sandwich and slips out a curse.

"Not a very ladylike thing to say." He remarks, jumping off the hood still holding her by the ankle.

"You made me drop my lunch – now give me back my shoe." She begins nudging his side with her spare foot but he clutches that one too.

"Not until you promise me one thing."

She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face and demands irritably, "What?"

"Get in the backseat of the truck." He makes one of those guy faces, with the jumping eyebrows and the smirk.

Rinoa sighs and looks at him, "Squall … I'm not going to – hey!" He's taken off her other shoe and is heading towards the precipice, "Squall, don't you dare. You can't just take my shoes and throw them over!"

"Define the difference between 'can't' and 'shouldn't'?" He is snickering now.

But she's still a little smarter than him, "Well you _can't_ if you have any intention of getting me into the backseat of your truck."

"Guys throwing your personal things over cliffs is that big of a turn-off?"

"I will walk home in my socks and never speak to you again." She affirms.

He seems to be considering his options and then strolls back to the jeep as though in defeat. Shoes in hand, however, he walks right by her, opens his back door and throws the shoes inside, still with that incredibly, enigmatically, attractive smirk. She groans and glares at him, "You're not funny."

"Oh sorry, would madam like a helping hand to the car? Wouldn't want to get your socks dirty." Without even waiting for her reply, he scoops her into his arms and before she even has a chance to put up a fight, he slips her into the backseat alongside of him and shuts the door. Involuntarily, she thinks of whether it was this much of a struggle to get Ashley back here.

And that's when she realizes he is far too close. She is inwardly freaking out. It's like staring at an oncoming train while your leg is caught in the rails. Terrifying. But Squall Leonhart has eyes to make it mesmerizing. Her fingertips touch the stubble on his cheeks and she braces herself for the crash, the complete loss of control.

She waits. Nothing. They're just staring at each other. It's getting awkward. Then with a mischievous glint in his eyes he teases, "So, what do we do now? It's been a while for me. Like, where does my mouth go?"

Flabbergasted. What an ugly word but it becomes so appropriate for her now. She shuts her eyes because it's becoming too painful, too embarrassing to even look at him. "I hate you, Squall." She hears him chuckle so she repeats, "No. I'm serious. I _fucking _hate you." And she hates her underwear too.

"I mean, my mouth goes on your mouth right but does it just … stay there? What do I do with my hands? My tongue?" He sticks it out, just for good measure and lets it hang out for a minute. He derives such a sadistic pleasure from this, from her tomato complexion.

She retreats her hands from his face and punches him in the chest, "Ow. Hey!" He protests but she actually begins beating him back with a few pinches, flicks to the ears, pushes and shoves. As he leans back into the seat to dodge her onslaught and she climbs up onto him and says, with all the determination in the world, "Now Squall, don't screw this up."

And then, there. That's it. And it's perfect.

'_Cause she's bittersweet  
She knocks me off my feet  
And I can't help myself,  
I don't want anyone else  
She's a mystery  
She's too much for me  
But I keep coming back for more …  
She's just the girl I'm looking for._

* * *

**Note: **I suck at updates.

"Just the Girl" – The Click Five.


	13. Chapter 13

"_**Your heart is my piñata."**_

_-Chuck Palahniuk_

**--------------------------------**

**Chapter XIII: The 'F' Words**

"Huh." Squall remarks, stupidly, "**That** was worth waiting for." He nestles his head playfully on her neck, his hands searching for hers, "Wonder what **else'll** be worth waiting for."

"I like you better when you don't talk." Rinoa replies. Straddling him doesn't feel half as empowering as it should but she keeps the trembling on the inside, her nervousness is masked and she impresses herself. Their fingers intertwine and a mischievous look crosses his face.

"Then keep my mouth busy."

So she does, for another ten seconds and then pulls away and turns towards the front. She leans into the front seat and begins to rummage through the corner store bag.

"Bla, bla, bla, bla …" Squall looks to the roof of his car and begins childishly chanting. It seems to have gotten her attention again since she's turning towards him again and … there. The sweet, crumbly texture of chocolate chip cookies nearly chokes him. She's stuffed a good four of them in his big, fat, gaping mouth, "Oom, yo' sho' clef-fah …"

"Shh … don't talk with your mouth full." Rinoa smiles and readjusts her seating arrangement. She sits on his lap.

"Hay, Weh-noah, why doh't I giff yo' a mouf-full?" It's a lot of work but he's gradually chewing and swallowing them down progressively.

"Hm? I didn't get that." She answers, innocently but by the look in her eye, she definitely did, "Do you want some milk with that?"

"Dehpenss wheh ih cohms fruhm …es ih wahm?" There is a wicked look in his eye and so the following arm punches are justified on her part.

"Shut up."

"Yoh byootehfuhl …"

She pauses, feels a blush coming on, "Shut up."

Squall swallows the last bits of cookie and clears his throat, "I'm not so bad myself, I know – but really, I'd drop my pants for you." His hands begin roaming her legs.

"No offense but I don't think it takes all that much for you to drop your pants."

He raises his eyebrow, "Are you calling me easy?"

"Maybe." She plays fiddles with the chain at his neck, the corners of her mouth ever so slightly teasing upwards.

"No. Fuck this. I feel filthy and objectified. If you're using me for my body, get out of my goddamn car! I know, okay, I know I'm … I'm fucking sexy but I'm a person too, you know? Don't you care about **my** feelings?" He isn't even** trying** to be convincing.

Rinoa bursts out laughing, "You – you – you used the 'f' word."

"What? 'Fuck'?" He replies, confused.

"No. **Feelings**."

"I was being facetious."

"Obviously. You don't **feel**." She remarks, still very much amused and then, " … 'Facetious'? Quite the vocab you have on you."

"You thought I was a dumb jock, huh?" He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her closer.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not."

"Apparently."

"I could even teach a gynecologist a few things."

She slaps him on the chest, "My God, you are so **sleazy** – that's so gross, shut up!" She wonders why she's smiling. He's being a complete pervert.

"Yeah, sure, admit it, now I've got you curious." The look on his face tells he's deserving of some kind of award, "The rumors are true, you know."

"That you're a whore?"

"What?" He asks, bewildered, "No way! **I'm** not the whore. I've **dated whores** but that's not the same thing."

"Can I ask you a serious question?" She looks him square in the eye, "Why date whores?"

Squall bites his lip, "Because they don't really matter." He shrugs as rain begins to patter down on the car. It has been getting darker, fast.

"And here I thought relationships were mutual … self-investments." Rinoa replies cynically, her attention now caught by the drizzle outside.

"Yeah, you know how hard it is to give a little bit of yourself to someone and then in a matter of months, have to start all over again?"

"It's called long-term relationships."

"It's called high school."

"Squall, if you think I'm-"

But he interrupts, "If I did, I don't think I'd be stupid enough to have this conversation with you."

The rain washes down on the car, it sounds like a thousand drums on different beats all carrying the same tune: big fucking headache. She feels intensely guilty and wrong. He doesn't really have to defend himself. Especially not for her sake. So here goes nothing, she thinks and then, "I have a boyfriend. It's been like, a year."

It's like a remote-controlled mine that's been sitting at the back of his brain for a little while. She just totally pushed the detonator. To hear **her** say it … **confirm **it drives him completely out of his mind. He doesn't know how to hold back his anger. Doesn't know why it's even there. Wait. He does. Maybe there was just something more to this. Maybe he had been ready to take a gamble. Maybe he had wanted a … **mutual self-investment** with this girl, "Oh okay." The words sound so incredibly restrained. Like he's pulling up an anchor

She feels his entire body tightening and she knows her words won't be without consequence. She's not quite sure what to say anymore, or if there's anything left to say at all. She's not even sure why she even had to say that, "I don't – I mean, I … it's difficult. To get out of. Because … everyone else figures that I don't want to. Get out of it, I mean."

There is a pause. She's finished talking, he thinks. He wants to put his fist through a wall, "Look, I don't know what you want me to say." Squall manages to wheeze out with quivering control. In fact, he can think of plenty of things to say, none that she'd want to hear.

"No, nothing." She puts forth quickly, "You don't have to say anything. It's just that it's complicated." Never has she had to so overtly explain herself to someone she's known so little about.

"Okay, so, we won't see each other." There's a rumble in his voice that gives hint to the impending landslide.

"That's not what I want." Rinoa blurts, "I like hanging out. I like … you. I just – it's … a **huge** issue for me. I don't ..." Suddenly she's frustrated. Frustrated at her brother. Frustrated at Matthew. Frustrated at herself for having been submissive to this situation, "I don't want him to screw this up." As soon as the words leave her mouth she regrets them. How inconceivably selfish must she look now?

"Why not?"

"Because … he doesn't really matter."

"Do I?"

"Yeah." As she says it, her cellphone goes off from her back pocket. He must feel the harsh, pulsating vibrations as much as she does so she reaches for it and flips it open. Caller: Matt. Digitalized print for easy reading. Speaking of which. She shuts off her phone.

A terrorizing silence follows.

Squall breaks the silence, "I guess I should take you home."

_Let's go back  
Back to the beginning …  
Where the earth, the sun, the stars all aligned_

How can she not be upset? And how can this not fuel her rage? They're waiting for her. Playing stupid Halo on their stupid Xbox but she knows this is just another way of **waiting** for her, "Where the fuck were you?" Her brother asks, unceremoniously. He doesn't even look at her.

"With friends." She lies.

At least Matt – gracious, polite little Matt – has the decency to pause their dumb capture the flag bullshit, "We tried calling."

"I was out!" She bellows. The volume of her own voice makes her jump. She didn't mean to scream. They're just as surprised as she is, looking at her with eyes as big as saucepans, "Jesus, Matthew …" She hisses aggressively.

"What is up with you lately?" Matthew gets up from the couch, a little concerned, a little pissed off. He's not used to so much turmoil. He needs everything to be relaxed. The littlest issues give him ulcers. He doesn't need ulcers.

"Shut up!" Rinoa snaps back, "Nothing is up with me! I am just so sick of your stupid little questions, I need my space! Give me my space!"

Mike finally rises and, in his all-commanding voice, thinks he can put an end to this, "Take a fucking Valium, Rinoa – you need to calm the hell down."

She whips her head around to stare boldly into her brothers eyes and then firmly announces, "Hey, dumb ugly bitch – fuck off." Mike looks as though she just flung poo at him. She turns back to Matthew and states, "I have enough. We're taking a break. We're taking a break of undetermined length."

The most uncomfortable of silences balloons up in the room and Mike finally stutters, "Thi-this is so awkward."

"It's because you're here, do you mind leaving?" Rinoa retorts, "He'll fill you in later."

Mike obliges and after he's left, Matthew blinks rapidly and begins rubbing the back of his head, "Look, babe, I think we're both a little tense but-"

"I'm not changing my mind."

"So we're just going to fucking break up?" He demands, exasperated.

"Okay, wow, is it like a big surprise? Like 'woo', oh-my, total curveball? Are you serious? Were there not enough hints? Should I make myself clearer?" She feels vicious and merciless but all she can think of is the conversation in Squall's car, "Matthew, it's simple, if I have to spend one more night on this stupid couch with you I'm going to blow a gasket. If I have to go through one more séance of your stupid questions, I'm going to blow a gasket."

"You've already blown your fucking gasket." He states, flinging his hands up in the air, "Forget it, I can't talk to you when you're like this. Actually, you've **never** been like this so I'll call you when you when I can at least **recognize** you, maybe we'll get some more progress done then, okay? Bye."

Then he's out the door and down the hallway. She hears him politely say good-bye to his mother who confusedly mutters the same and appears in the doorframe of the living room, "What in heaven's name is going on?"

"I'm single." Rinoa replies, bitterly.

"What?" Julia replies, squinting in disbelief, "Rinoa, that's ridiculous. You had a fight. Stop over dramatizing everything."

"I'm **single**." She repeats obstinately, "And it's great."

'_Cause perfect didn't feel so perfect  
Trying to fit a square into a circle was no life  
I defy._

They are in the kitchen now, Rinoa forced to help clean the dishes for a supper she didn't even eat, "I just don't **love **him." She attempts, exasperated to explain as she stacks the plates back into the cupboard.

"And I just don't understand **why**." Replies her mother. Julia plunges her hands back into the sink sending clouds of suds drifting into the kitchen space.

Rinoa feels as if she's losing her mind, "Why? What does 'why' have to do with any of this? I don't need a **why**!"

Her comment soars right past her mother's deaf ears, "He's handsome, he's faithful, he's polite, respectful and he's finishing off a bachelor's in business administration. What's not to love, Rinoa? What is it that's not **clicking**?"

"**He** doesn't click! Why do you care so much – you're not the one that has to **be **with him. Either way, it's done. Stop beating a dead horse." She throws the dish towel across the counter and crosses her arms defiantly.

Julia glares back at her daughter and replies with complete conviction, "What if the horse isn't dead? What if it's just sleeping?"

It takes a moment for Rinoa to grasp what has just happened and then she sputters, "Mom, the horse thing is an expression."

"I **know** that –"

"No. You can't just try to turn the horse into a metaphor for my relationship with Matthew! That's dumb. Mom, you're dumb. There is no horse." She is in complete disbelief that she has just wasted fifteen minutes of her life on this ridiculous conversation.

"You listen, Rinoa Caraway-Heartilly and you listen good. Life is not a Cinderella story and love is not something that comes without compromise. You can't expect the horse to jump hurdles for you if you don't nurture it, if you don't –"

"**Enough** with the horse!" Rinoa's scream tears from her throat as she suppresses a violent urge to strangle her mother, "If you care about the … the fucking horse so much-"

"Language!"

"Then why don't **you** saddle up and **ride**-"

"Oh, so it's just a question of sex, isn't it?"

Bewildered that her mother just pronounced the 's' word, she feels her head reeling, "**What**? Are you **talking about**?"

Julia wipes her hands on the front of her shirt and then places them on her hips, "Oh right, because I'm sure the 'saddle up and ride' wasn't meant to have any sexual undertones."

Rinoa doesn't know where to go from here. This conversation has already gone so horribly wrong, "**WHERE ARE YOU COMING FROM**?"

"Do you take me for an idiot?"

Rinoa's dialogue is like a sloppy mudslide on a rainy day, "No! You're crazy! Where do you pull these things from? Saddle – that relates to a horse! You can ride horses! We were talking about horses! I am **not** talking to you about sex! Sex with **Matthew** nonetheless! Never! Not with you! No! I'm sorry! This conversation is over! I'm **leaving**! This is me – leaving the kitchen! Good **bye**!" She marches right out of the kitchen and into the hall closet, prying nervously for a sweater.

"We'll talk about this later." She hears her mother's voice from the other room.

"No, actually, we're **never** talking about this again!" She calls back, rushing out of the front door and slamming it shut behind her.

-------------------------

He's not picking up. She's going to kill him. This is the seventh ring and chances are he's doing it on purpose.

Rinoa feels sick and on the verge of tears, sitting inside this wet plastic tube generally meant for children twelve years younger than she. The price to pay for solitude, one supposes. At least its shelter from the light drizzle. She has a hoody to keep her warm. It isn't as bad as it could be.

"Hi." He answers.

Wait. He **answered**. "Hi, hey, I was just about to hang up."

There is a pause, "Where are you? What's with the echo?"

She feels like such a loser, "I'm … in Smiley Park. In the pipe maze." What a big freak, he must be thinking. What a big, retarded freak. She should have just hung up after the third ring, it would have avoided her all this humiliation.

Another pause, "Why?"

"I don't know, Squall – because my mom was driving me up the wall." She answers irritably, "Are you upset?"

"Yeah, as upset as I should be." She hears him sighing, "But I'll still come pull you out of a fucking inner tube if that's what you need."

* * *

**Author's notes:** N/A. Love. Thanks to Hilary Duff for her stunning performance of "Come Clean" in this chapter. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter XIV: Sitting, Waiting, Wishing**

He doesn't join her in the pipe maze. He doesn't fit. He squats patiently at the edge for her to talk to him since she's said nothing since, "Hi." The rain is a light drizzle now. Squall adjusts his baseball cap, gazes at the empty sandbox and the slippery monkey bars.

As softly as the rain falls, she shuffles to the end of the pipe. Even softer still does her hand slip into his. It comes as a greater shock to him than it should. Perhaps because her hand is freezing cold, perhaps because he had convinced himself he's just not the hand-holding kind of person. Perhaps because he's just a little scared. But only a little. He suddenly finds himself wishing for something to say.

"Do you want ice cream?" That was pretty stupid.

Rinoa turns her face towards him a little, "Not really."

"Right. You seem kind of ... cold." He answers, nodding and finally quickly adding, "Temperature-wise." In a great act of courage, he brings her hand to his lips and brushes it slightly, "You want to go someplace else?"

"Yes?" She **asks** it because she isn't entirely sure what leaving means. Leave to where? She might end up liking it here better. It's always wise to be cautious when encountering these kinds of ... choices.

"Come on." He ushers her out of her pipe. Her bomb shelter. Safety is such a rarity in her life, she almost regrets leaving as she shuts the car door.

* * *

ESPECIALLY SINCE SHE doesn't feel safe here. The cold, wooden floor creaks beneath her bare feet; the walls are patched and unpainted; there is an echo. His basement is everything but welcoming. She can't believe she was coerced out of her pipe maze for this place. Meanwhile, he plops down onto a mangled loveseat, "We've been renovating for a few years now."

She carefully lowers herself into a more secure-looking beanbag, still gathering as much optical data as she can. This is practical photography. This is survival photography, "Cool."

Squall stares at her a moment, lets out a frustrated growl and pulls himself from his seat. He flops himself onto the floor next to her and gives her a look, "Had to make things difficult, huh?"

"You're pretty difficult, yourself." She replies, almost meanly.

"I'm the easiest thing in the world." Squall flashes a grin, "I like club sandwiches and fries with mayo, wristwatches, cars and you."

"Everything is very hands-on with you, isn't it?" She looks irritated but sounds curious. Not purposely of course, she could never intentionally tease him.

"What? You don't like my hands?"

Rinoa goes a few shades of scarlet before she manages to cover her face. He traces circles on her ankles and kisses her jeaned knees. When he's certain she won't answer his question, he adds smiling, "Here, I'll keep my hands to myself," he tucks them behind his back, "but, uh, now I have to cover the same grounds with my mouth."

Her face reappears suddenly and she offers, "How about you cover **no** grounds?"

"Man, I can't take that seriously when you've got a huge smile on your face, come on, beautiful." He initiates a wrestle and without her vast armaments of cushion and other living room apparels, Rinoa doesn't put up a very decent fight.

"You can't use your hands." Rinoa breathes, trying hard to twist from his grip with no avail, "You cheated."

"You use your teeth!" He counters.

"You cheated!" As obstinate as ever.

Squall thinks on this for a minute and nods, "Okay, you're right. You win." And the world is flipped back around as he rolls over and she finds herself on top, "Yep, you got me. I guess you can use me now to fulfil your wildest desires."

She rolls her eyes but plays along, "I'm cold. I'd like a blanket."

"If that's what you really want."

"Un-huh."

And again, as unpredictable as ever, he scoops her up with no effort at all and carries her to she-doesn't-know-quite-where, "Hey, what're you doing?" She asks right before she is flung on a pile of softness. A nest of blankets. His bed. Hm. Not according to plan.

He climbs in next to her and kisses her lightly on the nose. One of his hands finds the small of her back and draws her closer to him.

"Just a blanket would have been fine." Rinoa pushes him lightly.

He concedes and flops next to her, "So are you ever horny?"

She turns to him with a reaction defined between quizzical and appalled, "I'm sorry, what?"

"It's a question." Squall is struggling with the discourse; he hasn't made a habit of asking these kind of questions. He's never had to, "Don't you ever feel like-"

"Sex? No, not really." The answer is blunt, definitive – like the question.

"Well." He says, just to say something, "Then I'm mortified." And ventures on his theme, "I always feel like it. If it was like ... raining with thunder and lightning and ... we were under and tree and a ... dude with a hockey mask and a chainsaw was chasing us, you could just look at me and say, 'Squall, I want you inside of me' and I wouldn't have a chance to think twice, my pants would already be off."

There's a very, **very** awkward silence and finally, she replies, "Well, you should get that checked out. It's not natural."

Squall begins to sputter, "N ... not natural? Rinoa! You're like ... Alcatraz!"

An indignant, "What?" And she bolts into a sitting position.

"Yes! Alcatraz! No one ever goes in, no one ever comes out!"

"Yyy- ... we started talking a few months ago! I'm so **sorry**! Clearly, we already know absolutely everything we need to know about each other! Yeah, I'm **so** sorry, I've seen the ... the **err** of my ways – let me – let ... just let me **correct** myself by just ... ripping all my clothes off and just spreading myself out!"

In an instant, aided by the traumatic look on her face and an unexpected freak-out on her part, Squall locks down on one thought only: This is fucking hilarious. He begins to goad her on, "That ... would be so hot."

"Un-huh, do you have a camcorder? Maybe we could tape it!"

"Ahh-yeah!"

"Then you could show it to all of your idiot friends!"

"Ohh-don't stop ..." He grabs the pillow from beneath his head and sets it on his crotch.

And as if by magic, she realizes the escalation of their conversation. She's planning an escape. Running frantically from the house shrieking seems like an excellent option, "Are you joking?"

"Absolutely." And he lets out his best asshole cackle that makes her feel like a real moron.

She doesn't know which she would have preferred: a serious Squall or a joking one who laughs at her expense. She falls back onto the bed and groans.

"So, are you going to consent to a civil conversation about this?"

"Why do you want to talk about this?"

Squall props himself up on an elbow, "I want to know. "

"Know what?" She closes her eyes. She can't talk about this **and** look him in the eye at the same time. That's asking for far too much. She's embarrassed beyond measure. How many girls have slipped through these sheets and how are her bits and pieces any different from theirs? Because that's exactly what she feels like right now: bits and pieces. And how can anyone explain – without sounding like a creep – that he tastes and smells and feels so very different from what she's used to? He's no Matthew and it's ... so wonderful and frightening at the same time. To her, his lips are so different and to him, hers are so the same.

She's being oddly difficult. He just wants to **know**. Nothing in particular, just everything at all. Everything she can think of. He tries to formulate an adequate response, "I ... want to know about sex. From Rinoa's point of view."

"I don't like it that much."

"Yeah, me neither." He jokes.

"I'm serious." Her reply is snappy, "When I think of it, I don't ... put myself in the situation."

"You think of other people then? So ... you're a sultry porn fiend."

"Why is it always funny ha-ha with you?"

He's momentarily surprised, "Rinoa, if sex is **anything** at all in the world it's funny ha-ha."

She lets out a disturbed, "Ugh," and faces away from him, "I'm sorry, it's not something I've done very often so I'm not quite as comfortable talking about it as you seem to be – judging from your **wide-range** of experiences."

"You're right."He sits up and leans against his headboard, "Ok, so we don't have to talk about it but I'd like to know if you're going to let me try. I **want** to kiss you and touch you, hell – I'll hold your hand. " A short pause and he decides to dive, "You know, I've never been so edgy about **initiating** something before, you make me afraid to just ...I've done stuff with girls just because they were girls, you understand? Because they had the right parts ... " He's scrambling his thoughts now, "I want to do that stuff with you because you're you. Because you're so ... freaking ... you make me go nuts."

She doesn't reply so he growls, "I'm sorry, I'm tired."

"Good, you're giving me a headache."

He dons a suggestive tone, "Hey babe, you know what cures headaches?"

"Squall-!"

"**Aspirin**, Rinoa." He interrupts with too wide of a smirk, "**Aspirin** cures headaches."

"You're a prick." She sits up, turns to face him, "I mean it – you ... you are a prick."

"M'yeah." He offers limply because he's stumbled on something so precious. On an irrefutable argument. On gold. And he shares it with her, "So why're you still here?"

**Because I want you**. The though explodes in her head and she's grateful it remains there. Rinoa searches the depths of her mind for a smart answer. **Because I want you**. There has to be one. She can't possibly be stuck with the truth. **Because I want you**.

**Because I want you**.

"Because I want you."

She couldn't have said that out loud. Could she? She did, didn't she? He must have misheard. There's no way she would just **say **that. It's too amazing. What's next? Will she throw herself on him? That would be sweet. But is he sure she said that? Look at her face, he doesn't even think **she **knows.

She just **said **that. **Aloud**. What the hell is wrong with her? 'Oh, I want you.', 'Do you, now?', 'Why, yes, I do!', 'Tally ho! Let's get some tea.' She just **said **that. That was basically the entire conversation, wasn't it?

For a moment, they can only stare at each other in bewilderment. Squall begins to shuffle up to a sitting position and dares to suggest, "You know, I really don't understand why we can't just make out hardcore."

And a fire-engine red Rinoa replies, "Because you have to drive me home. Like right now."

* * *

"AND THAT'S MY story." Rinoa finishes her explanation, "That's why I wasn't home when you called and that's why my cellphone was off."

Corealie pauses, crosses her legs on the navy bedspread and looks searchingly at Rinoa, "So you **didn't make out**?" Her question is harsh, her narrowed eyes demanding.

"No!"

"You're **blushing**."

Rinoa exhales sharply, "Okay, well, in the car we did."

Corealie leans in, "Was there like, tongue?"

"Wow." Her younger cousin shuts her eyes and massages her temples strenuously, "Wow, why are you so awkward." It's not even a question because even if there was an answer, Rinoa is definitely not in the right state of mind to hear it.

Corealie stares intently still, determined to push this until either of them explodes, "Was it like ... well maintained? Or was it sloppy? The tongue, I mean. **His**."

Standing bolt upright and off her bed, Rinoa walks to her desk and pulls out her office chair, "No, I'm sorry, this conversation is going nowhere and-"

"Because of your obstinate lack of cooperation." Corealie interrupts snappishly, "I would divulge everything to you and you know it."

"Only because I wouldn't want to know. Now shut up, I'm doing homework." She pauses and finds her cousin's way of putting things has gotten her thinking about the other night. Too much to read any kind of Shakespeare at least, "Shit, Corealie – is there anyone in the world more awkward and distracting than you?"

* * *

"PORN. I NEED porn." Irvine types furiously at Squall's computer, "Where do you go? Is it in your bookmarks?"

"Irvine, put that shit on my computer and I will fucking put my fist through your face." Squall hollers, throwing a gaming controller at him from his couch. It hits the floor and makes quite an impressionable echo.

"Guy, I could get tons of porn from the video store ..." Zell offers meekly.

"No." Squall answers in Irvine's place, getting up to fetch the wireless controller, now with its battery pack shattered off and scattered away.

"Do you know how long it's been for me?" The cowboy-hat-sporting young man turns harshly towards his aggressor, "Do you know? This shit is insane. I have done the rounds at Riverdale and now there is nothing left for me there. I'm saving myself for someone special." Irvine spins himself in the wheelie chair, leans backwards and groans loudly, "But I would hump anything with a skirt right now."

Letting himself fall backwards onto the couch again, Squall takes a sip of his beer, "You should try Ashley, she's an 'anything with a skirt'."

Irvine whines a tad and glances at Squall, "Is she good?"

Squall shrugs, "Gets the job done."

This seems to make Irvine think a little beyond. He thumbs the neck of his bottle of dry and concludes, "Yeah but then my junk would have been where your junk was and that's like ... if we rubbed our junks together. That's just weird. I wouldn't want that. So ... I don't want to hump Ashley."

Seeing an opportunity, Zell gets a little too excited, "Can I hump Ashley?"

"No, Zell." Squall pats him on the shoulder, "Get yourself a nice girl."

"Like Rinoa." Irvine offers.

Squall's eyes flare up and he lashes out, "Suck my dick."

"Doesn't she do that?"

The reaction is immediate and explosive, "I will fucking kill you, Irvine"

Unfortunately, Squall doesn't quite make it to his target before his phone begins its humming vibration in his jean's pocket. Looking at the ID, he pacifies slightly, "I **will** fucking kill you, Irvine. Later." And with that, he scampers off into his room; shuts his door and flips open his phone, "Hey hun." Such a different tone he takes with her, and he supposes she'll never know.

"Hi. What-cha doing?" Rinoa asks on the other end.

"Just hanging out with some guys."

"Zell?"

"Uh ... yeah."

She laughs. That's worth the embarrassment, he supposes, "I don't get you. Can you do me a favour? When you have a second can you e-mail me the lit essay guideline sheet? Please?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Or you know, you can ask Zell to do it."

"Funny." He snorts, "So, can I see you tonight?"

There's silence and then a shy, "I don't know."

"I'll call you."

"Okay. Bye."

"Take care." And he waits for the click on her end before daring himself, "Miss you?" It feels weird as it rolls off his tongue. He shakes his head, snaps his cell closed and gets his jerk face back on.

* * *

"YEAH, YOU TOTALLY just called to like, hear his voice." Corealie goads.

Rinoa's answer comes in the form of a seven-hundred page biology course pack. To the face.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter XV: Friction**

Is there no end? Rinoa is drowsily observing the volcano that is Corealie, a rant pouring out of her like molten lava. The raven-haired girl puts her head on her pillow, making absolutely certain that her eyes remain fixated on her cousin sitting at the end of her bed – she **knows** when she isn't being paid attention to, "I'm fine with my ... celibacy, as it were. I just want someone to like pay for my dinner and movie – on occasion. Whoever said "relation-shits" was like, on the ball." She taps her right temple to emphasize the genius of the words, "I don't think I'm particularly demanding ..."

Rinoa attempts to digest the irony of those words without smiling too much. Noticing the relent in Corealie's monologue she dares to close her eyes, just for a little while – to ... refocus or something. But the actress will allow no such rest, "Uhm, like, excuse me? Am I talking to the wall? Hello Mr. Wall! Like, how're you today? Great? Oh, that's super awesome – like, me too! Oh. My. God."

"What – I can't blink anymore?" Rinoa sighs, having quite enough of this theatrical presentation.

"That was a mega-long blink."

"Mega-long blinks happen."

Corealie sniffs, "You're a whore."

Rinoa raises an eyebrow, "What?"

"True story." Her cousin concludes and then just as quickly moves onwards, "So are you even going to like, pretend to be engaged in this issue by giving me some kind of like ... advice or solution to my obvious ... disenchantment?" The question is met by a beyond perplexed look from Rinoa, "Oh, well I **was** actually talking to the wall, that's just-"

"Disenchantment? What kind of word is that?"

"The dictionary kind." Corealie snaps back, "Smart ass. And by 'smart ass' I mean like ... stupid ho. Just throwing that out there, you're a stupid ho." Her potent glare intensifies and Rinoa inhales deeply only to sigh once more.

"I'm not an advice person, Corealie." Rinoa replies, annoyance peaking in her tone, "Maybe instead of like ... I don't know ... remember you making a bet with Eric about third base and how you argued he wouldn't be able to ... not go there or something with this one girl and if you were right he'd take you out for ice cream? Like ... that is some **complicated stuff **for one ice cream date, Corealie. You need to find new pick-up lines or ... something. Am I making sense? I mean ... just say, 'Hey, wanna go for ice cream?' or whatever."

"You just don't have a **clue** how to seduce men, do you?" Corealie snaps indignantly as a hot blush creeps up onto Rinoa's face, "Uhm – hello? You have to stalk them, prey upon them ... hide behind the bushes on their front lawns. Then ... you have to warble out your provocative mating call." She rouses a deep, sensual coo – like that of a pigeon's – from the back of her throat for a few moments and then goes on, "Then you lure them ... yes ... you lure them into those same bushes and then **BAM**!" Rinoa twitches slightly from the surprise sound effect, "When all is safe and he's beside you, sweating and gasping for breath ... then you know. You know you've won."

There is silence. An impregnable silence. Rinoa can look nowhere other than her ceiling, blushing furiously as she answers with an almost shaking voice, "Corealie, I can't believe you're actually wondering **why** the boys don't like you." And then, because it's impossible to contain, a peal of incontrollable laughter surfaces from the younger girl and does not stop for well over a minute. She clutches her knees to her chest in an attempt to stop the aches tearing through her abdomen. In between gasps of breath and giggles, the only discernable words escape as, "I ... mean ... **honestly** ..."

A dead-pan look from Corealie fails to squash the hilarity Rinoa finds herself immersed in, "Oh, right – so like I was saying, **you're a stupid ho**."

Rinoa rolls over, cackling still, "Oh ... God ... t'hurts ..." The older cousin waits for the laugh attack to subside. Finally Rinoa releases a last sigh, props herself up with an elbow and asks as innocently as she can muster, "So ... can you do your mating call again?"

"No." Corealie answers curtly, returning her attention to a biology textbook open in her lap.

"Oh, come on. If you're actually studying, please tell me – I'll take a picture of this ... this ... historic moment." A pile of crumpled hand-outs are thrown in a vain attempt to cut the amusement short but Rinoa takes it as Corealie conceding her defeat, "See, I knew you weren't studying."

"Yes, I am!" Corealie replies obstinately, "Lysosomes are fucking fascinating so s-t-f-u."

"O-m-g! W-t-f! B-b-q!"

"Holy shit, what is **wrong** with you today?" Corealie shuts the textbook shut definitively and gives her cousin a simmering glare, "Did you take up crack?"

"I had a cake-shake and it's kicking in like ... **now**."

"The fuck's a "cake-shake"?" Corealie shrieks, horrified.

"There was cake in the fridge and I put it in the blender and I pushed puree and I drank it and it was great. And yeah."

"You're disgusting."

"Don't be jealous." Rinoa begins to show little eruptions of giggles again.

"You're going to gain like ... eighty-five million pounds. I'm **not** jealous." Corealie breaks into a grin and shakes her head in disbelief. And then, at the thought of a cake whirring into a blender and her seemingly humourless cousin actually giving the concoction a name, she wheezes out a laugh.

"It was chocolate cake." Now both girls have rivers of tears streaming from their eyes, doubled over in an uncontrollable giggle fit.

Corealie gasps, her words nearly incomprehensible beneath her cackles, "Y- ... nasty ... gross ..." And Rinoa sort-of-kind-of argues back with her, "So ... good ..."

Interrupting their maniacal (but probably entirely healthy) laughing episode is Rinoa's cellular phone chiming the most generic, least obnoxious preset ring tone. "Shhhit," She giggles as she glances at the caller ID, "Shh, shut up, it's Squall." This is of course, all the more hilarious to Corealie whom, once set off is like a defective alarm clock. Wheezing with laughter, Rinoa attempts to insist, "Seriously, stop, be quiet."

Her older cousin lets off a final wail before burying her head under a pillow, still quite vibrant with snorts and titters. Rinoa flips open her phone, "Hi-aii ..." Her voice cracks and that sends Corealie into a seizure. Trying her best to ignore the twitching, writing organism next to her, Rinoa is still clinging to the hope of a normal conversation.

"Hi ..." Squall's voice replies reluctantly on the other end, "You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, fine." She's quick to answer, dying of embarrassment, "I'm ... I'm just a little hyper."

* * *

"A LITTLE HYPER?" He asks, kind of wondering, actually, if it's some kind of code for 'horny' that he's completely overlooking. Because that would suck. A whole lot.

"Un-huh, I ate too much dessert." She sounds really, really, really happy. And he can't help but think it's really, really, really adorable. He feels like an idiot, "You know ... sugar ..."

"Yeah ... sugar does that. That's ok, right – means you have enough energy for a hike or a ... long walk on the beach or something." Squall fiddles and pokes a couch pillow, glancing towards the basement stairs to make sure his two "buddies" aren't eavesdropping.

There is a giggle, "Uh – what?"

"Ahh, uhm, well ... Zell and Irvine wanna hang out at Pine Beach and drink beer tonight and I thought it'd be cool if you and your cousin came along or something. I mean ... maybe a little awkward at first but I'm sure we'd ... have fun."

There's a pause, "Like ... cowboy Irvine?"

"Yeah?"

Another pause, "Aren't we not allowed to bring glass bottles to the beach?" In the background, Squall hears a piercing shriek of laughter. Rinoa adds uncomfortably, "That's ... Corealie, sorry." He can feel her blushing – that's how obvious it is.

"Uh, Rinoa ..." He replies, trying to mask his own chuckling, "Don't worry about it. Are you coming?"

* * *

IT'S A CLOUDLESS, cold night. All five of them are wearing both sweaters and jackets, huddled by the rocks nearer to the trees than to the water. The water. It rolls back and forth, licking the shoreline away, bringing with it a crispy breeze that makes Rinoa tuck her freezing hands into her sleeves, "Soo ... are there security guards?"

"Rinoa, **why** would there be security guards?" Corealie demands, attempting to wrench open a beer bottle and failing so very miserably.

"I don't know, seeing as how we had to **jump a fence** ..."

Irvine grabs the bottle from Corealie's hands and twists off the cap without even the slightest bit of trouble, he hands it back to her, tips his hat and replies, "Lady, you worry too much. Do you know how many women I've nailed on this very beach? **Loud** women. No one'll notice a few friends quietly having a few drinks."

"Wow, thanks – that's really reassuring." Rinoa drawls sarcastically as a cold bottle is pushed into her hands by Zell, "Wouldn't you have been in like ... a car or something?"

"What? No. ON the beach. It's ... romantic or something." Irvine pops open his own beer and takes a swig.

"On the sand?" Rinoa looks horrified.

The cowboy pauses and then dares to ask, "You're not very open are you? Sexually, I mean."

'This is all they talk about, isn't it?' Rinoa thinks to herself wearily. Guessing she may as well get used to it as fast as she can, she musters up the only honest answer she can, "No."

There is rustling in the bushes behind them and the girls turn their heads to see Squall emerging, "You went to pee, didn't you?" Corealie stares at him inquisitively. There is an awkward pause as Squall raises his eyebrow at her suspiciously.

"Yeah."

"In the bushes?"

"What?"

"In the wild." Corealie's look narrows and she then begins fishing around in her bag. Everyone looks at her for a moment. They look at each other. Again back at her. She's taken out a pocket-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, "I know you didn't wash your hands. That's disgusting. Use this."

Squall is in total disbelief, "Are you whack?"

"Uhm, like, no. I'm hygienically aware. Give me your hand." Bewildered, Squall hands out his right hand to her and she deposits a pea-sized amount of sanitizing gel into his palm. He rubs his hands together then presents them to her again with a very clear is-this-good-enough-mom look. Rinoa feels like burying her head under the sand.

"Yeah, you're whack." Zell nods.

"You're primitive." She jousts back and he belches, "Actually, while we're on the topic, I've always wondered: is it awkward having a penis?"

And for a while, all they can hear is the sound of waves. Except Rinoa. All Rinoa hears is the terrified scream rattling inside her head. So Corealie elaborates, "Because I had this really weird dream once where I had a penis and I was like, 'Wow, this is ugly and bothersome.' Isn't it annoying having something between your legs all the time? When you're walking does it like-"

"No." Squall replies, taking a long sip from his beer.

"But like, don't you-"

"No."

"Let me ask my question."

"Corealie, I've had my penis for eighteen years. I've gotten used to it being there. I don't think about it."

"He's right." Irvine chimes in, clinking his bottle with Squall's, "Cheers."

But they're not dealing with a regular contender, she's nowhere near giving up, "Give me a break, the **only** thing guys **ever** think about is their penis. Maybe it's because yours is small."

"Oh SNAP." Zell sputters in between two sips.

Squall mock laughs and then switches to his jerk face, "No."

"In Squall's defence, I did go to the bathroom with him once and it wasn't small."Zell offers, patting the captain on the back. There is a small pause and then Rinoa, with an incredulous look in his direction, begins to laugh. Irvine and Corealie join soon after leaving only an uncomfortable Squall looking at his blond friend with a look of certain distrust.

"Ho-kay, time to talk about something else." He finally manages over the hysterics.

"Well, wait!" Corealie begins with a mischievous look on her face, she holds up her beer, "One last toast to Squall's not-small dick."

"Cheers to that shit!" Irvine yells out, digging himself out another bottle from the box and holding it against Corealie's.

"Hear, hear!" Zell chimes. He and Squall put forth their own drinks.

"Uhm, Rinoa ..." Corealie teases the glowing-red girl, "It **does** benefit you most ..."

"I can't believe this." She replies, melting with laughter.

Her beer brings the final clink as the moon looms high and the tides roll in. She glances at each other their smiling faces in turn but lingers on Squall's for just a little longer. He turns to her and gives her that cocky grin. And suddenly, for a very brief moment, Rinoa feels awfully warm.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter XVI: Staying With You**

It was a case of twenty-four. There are none left. Squall only had one beer, being the designated driver and all. That leaves twenty-three empty bottles, their contents spread just about evenly in only four individuals. He does the math quickly and figures it's almost six bottles each. That's nothing for Irvine. He can see the cowboy cracking his jokes without a slur and finding his audience's over-zealous amusement particularly hilarious. Squall knows that Irvine is just fine. Zell has fallen awfully quiet, save for his occasional outbursts at Irvine's punch-lines. Corealie is out of her mind. He doesn't even understand the words that are coming out of her mouth anymore – in fact, he has his doubts on whether or not she's still speaking English. All he can tell is that she's very, very happy to be here.

And her. That very perfect blush has settled so very nicely on her. She's smiling an awful lot but in between Corealie and Irvine, hasn't said a whole bunch. He lightly touches her leg and over the clamour of the more vocal ones, asks, "You okay?"

Rinoa turns to him, still smiling, "Uhm ..." She begins to nod continuously and then adds, "I need to pee."

He wishes he could just make out with her right there. Grinning, he replies, "Yeah, well ... beer does that. You want to find a bathroom?"

"Uhm ..." Again the same adorable pause, "I can't get up. I have no legs."

"What?"

"I mean ... they don't feel **there** anymore."

"FREAK!" Corealie snaps and slaps Rinoa's thigh, "RIGHT THUR!" And just as sudden as her outburst, Corealie returns her attention to Irvine who seems to think that a smashed Corealie is the funniest thing he's ever seen. **Ever**.

Trying his best not to pay too much attention to Corealie, Squall returns to Rinoa, "So, you need help getting up?"

He gives her a hand but quickly realizes she needs more than help getting up. She needs help **staying up**. For a second or two, he wonders how she's ever going to manage peeing, "Oh, wow, no. Un-un, not working." Rinoa mumbles, leaning into him. She grasps his waist firmly, "Wait." Her head is pressed against his chest. He feels ... awesome. But slowly, she pushes him away again, "I'm good." Rinoa walks away slowly in the direction of the woods. After a few steps, she stops, "Squall, I dunno where I'm going."

Squall turns to Irvine and yells over Corealie's hyena impression, "Meet back at the jeep in like ... five-ten minutes." When he's satisfied with the cowboy's nod, Squall nudges Rinoa forward.

They move slowly up the sandy trails to a small cabin near a few picnic tables. Through the awning of trees, the sky is hardly visible and this haven wasn't meant for night visitors hence – not much light. After Rinoa finishes up, they hike back to the entrance together and Squall realizes the problematic situation they've brought upon themselves. Even the inebriated girl gets it and utters an "Uh oh" as she looks up towards the fence they scaled over before. It was hard enough getting the case of beer over ...

"Can you climb it?" Squall asks and then doesn't even know why he bothered asking, "No, you can't. Okay. You're gonna stand on that boulder. Can you do that for me?" She's very cooperative, albeit, a little lacking in dexterity. Balancing himself on the fence, he manages to safely get her to cross and then jump down himself. After that little exertion, she's leaning against the trunk of the jeep looking beyond pooped, "Tired out?" He thinks it's pretty funny. She seems downright depressed.

"How's Corealie gonna do it?" Now **he's** depressed too. That thought hadn't even crossed his mind. How the fuck **is** Corealie going to get over that Goliath of a fence without killing herself and injuring others?

"I don't know, babe." Squall replies, rubbing his forehead, "Fuck. I'm gonna go try to find something."

"No," Her voice is so soft and scared, "Stay with me."

Stay with me. She hates that. The way she said it. It was baring a little part of her that she didn't want him to see yet. Things are happening so quickly now because she's become much too slow, his arms are around her. With a shutter speed of thirty, any sliver of light sticks, drags and the photograph obtained is one of slick lines of color swivelling into each other and melting into other hues. But vision is nothing to her anymore as she dares to close her eyes. Close her eyes and savour his lips against hers, so very simply. This is bananas, she thinks to herself. His arms tighten around her and feeling his ice cold hands slip under her shirt and onto her bare back cues an electric shiver down her spine. She likes it. That scares her.

But not as much as the flagrant wail of laughter that pierces their stillness. Squall jolts into Superman mode and takes a where-do-I-punch stance. After the initial shock wears off, both realize it's only Corealie getting closer, "JUS-**JUST** ... juh-" followed by another obnoxious scream. Squall takes a mental chill pill and rolls his eyes – a drunk theatre kid. What the hell had they been thinking? He sees Irvine staggering towards the fence, nearly doubled in laughter, pointing in Corealie's general direction. Corealie. She's not doing so well with the walking thing.

Bleary-eyed and staggering, she grabs the metal-link fence with both her hands and calls out to her younger cousin, "Wh-wh-what d'you call a judge wif no fingers?" Rinoa stares back and there's a pause, "Fuck, I fucked it up al-fucking-ready." Corealie hits her face into the barrier and takes the liberty of slurring it out again, "Wat ... d'you call a judge ... wif no tumbs ... thaa ... **thumbs**? You're gonna love this one ... justice fingers." When the raven-haired girl doesn't even show the slightest amusement, she tries again, "Justice fingers. Just his fingers. **Hello**? JUST HIS FINGERS! NO THUMBS!"

To Squall's bewilderment, Rinoa does actually start to giggle. The three on the other side of the fence howl with laughter. Everyone is getting a kick out of this except him. Ambushed by a sudden pulsing pain in his forehead, he attempts to get things moving, "Uh, yeah ..." he begins, mainly addressing Irvine, "How the fuck are we supposed to get her over the fence?"

"I'm MacGyver!" Corealie retorts as she begins to climb the fence on her own. Well ... climbing ... Squall assumes that's what she's trying to do; she could be humping the fence for all he knows.

"Can either of you stop her before she kills herself?" Being the only sober one has too many disadvantages. Next time, Squall decides, he's just going to bring a case for himself and not give a fuck, "Irvine, boost her up off that rock on your side, I'll make sure to catch her on my side." It takes about eight minutes for Corealie to clear the fence and right when she steps onto solid ground, she's away again (despite balance and depth perception abandoning her entirely) staggering towards Rinoa.

"Yooou. I missed you!" The older cousin sing-songs, "We've been apart for so looong." Her arms are outstretched in an expectant hug.

As Irvine and Zell leap over the barrier in turn, the cowboy turns to Squall, "Wasn't this fucking fun?"

The question is met with a glare and pressing words, "I have a headache."

"And I have to pee. Again." Rinoa calls out urgently from the jeep.

* * *

AS THEY PULL into his driveway, Squall turns to the backseat where Rinoa, Zell and Corealie are all safely strapped in, "Ok, Corealie. We're going to play a game."

"I fucking love games!" Corealie exclaims, kicking the back of the passenger seat, "I **love** dem!"

"Yeah. We're going to play the 'who-can-be-quieter' game." He explains cautiously, "Basically, the first person to say anything is the loser. You can't talk. The winner gets a ... a ..."

"I want a Nintendo DS!" Corealie screams excitedly, "Wif NINTENDOGS!"

The louder she gets, the more his forehead feels like it's going to explode, "Yeah, ok, shh, the winner gets a DS with whatever ... game ... ok, whatever. But if you lose, I'm going to fucking kill you. Ok?"

"DEAL!" And in the exhilaration of the moment, she throws out her hand to shake Squall's, in good faith, catching Rinoa's face instead. Horrified that she may have wounded her baby cousin, Corealie gasps far too dramatically, "I'm sooooooooo sooooorryyyyyy! Are you ok? Do I kissh it better? I can kissh it better. Are you shuuure?"

Squall turns back around in the driver's seat and rubs his face with both hands. He lets out a last sigh and then asks, dreading the answer, "Are you ready to play the game or not, Corealie?"

The process is fairly painless as the obnoxious one is dead set on getting her prize. Squall leads them into the safe, sound-proof basement. Incidentally, upon arrival, as though being quiet completely drained her, Corealie throws herself on the three-seater and immediately passes out. And then there were four. It got awfully quiet then. Zell glances at the comatose girl inquisitively then at Squall, "Did she just ...?"

"I fucking hope so." Squall interrupts harshly.

* * *

IN THE DARKNESS of the kitchen, Squall downs two painkillers with a quick chase of water. The tiny digitalized clock of the microwave blinks the ungodly hour of 4:42. He presses his face against the humming surface of the refrigerator door before opening it. Light explodes outwards and the median of pain in his forehead goes rampant to other sections of his skull. He quickly places the water jug back onto a shelf and closes the door again.

Taking great care in being completely silent, he descends the basement stairs slowly and cautiously – lighting being absent there as well. Pausing in his doorway, he squints around the room trying to discern the figures of Irvine and Zell. One of them has innovated himself a make-shift bed from lazy-boy cushions and the other is just sprawled out in a corner. Probably Irvine. Corealie is snoring loudly from the couch. Corealie. He rolls his eyes. What a pain in the ass.

Squall steps into his room and closes the door behind him. With great effort, he pulls his t-shirt over his head and casts it on the floor. He moves stealthily towards the bed, setting himself down quietly and then laying down. His bare back meets his cold crisp sheets and he's momentarily confused. Looking to the side, he locates his missing comforter, completely and entirely wrapped around Rinoa. Or what he thinks is Rinoa, he can't really see any indicative parts of her, "Rinoa?"

There is only a slight mumbled response.

He begins to unroll her from the blanket, "What're you doing?"

"Sleeping."

Squall smiles, kissing her forehead, "Can you share?"

Her whole body feels like an enormous boulder subjected to forty times normal gravity. She is dead tired and a little drunk but not a whole lot can keep her mind off the idea that she is wrapped up in Squall's bed spending the night. Or morning. Or whatever. Squall. Isn't he like ... the captain of the soccer team? This is bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-n-a-s. That might have been one too many 'n-a's. It doesn't matter. **In his bed.** Then the thought that she's been here before crosses her mind. Oh, but never mind that, she was **frigid** then ... and **not** drunk. And he doesn't have a shirt. Fancy that.

She's really pining for a kiss right now – a strange desire for her to maintain. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's just the moment but she doesn't see the harm in taking initiation at all. Tugging on the silver chain around his neck, Rinoa pulls him towards her and gently pushes her mouth onto his for the briefest of moments. She nestles her head back into the pillows and peering into his near imperceptible blue eyes, "Squall?"

"Yeah?" He leans with her and trails his lips on her neck.

She sighs under the weight of his body and asks, "Do ... do ... you like me a little or do you ... like me a lot?"

Squall rests his forehead against hers for a moment and whispers, "I like you a lot." The tips of his fingers tuck her hair behind her ears and lightly graze her delicate jaw. There's a pause and he kisses her nose.

For a moment or two she's ecstatic. He likes her **a lot**. Then her whirlwind of euphoria gives way to a tornado within her internal organs. Gravel lines her stomach and mixes in with the chocolate cake-shake, gray spots ease into her vision and she feels a weight of lead settle over her eyeballs, "Squall?"

He chuckles a little, "Yeah?"

"I feel really sick."

"What?"

"I'm gonna puke."

"Shit." He immediately rolls off of her. He likes her a lot but can't bring himself to break the vomit barrier yet. As soon as he's off, she bolts off the bed and into his bathroom. Over the sounds of her struggle and retching, Squall groans, rubs his face with both hands.

He pulls himself up to get her a glass of water and mutters to himself miserably, "I don't know why I didn't see that coming."


End file.
